lfS95 


FROM   THE   LIBRARY  OF 
REV.   LOUIS    FITZGERALD    BENSON,  D.  D. 

BEQUEATHED   BY   HIM   TO 

THE   LIBRARY  OF 

PRINCETON  THEOLOGICAL  SEMINARY 


Section       I    lU  TO 


/ 


fitntrfff  frnm  %wm. 


Alice  Carey's  "  Pictures  of  Memory"  is  the  noblest  poem  in  this  collection— 
although  the  most  distinguished  poetesses  in  this  land  have  here  included 
their  most  praiseworthy  compositions.  We  speak  deliberately ;  in  all  the 
higher  elements  of  poetry— in  true  imagination — in  the  power  of  exciting 
the  only  real  poetical  effect — elevation  of  the  soul,  in  contradistinction 
from  mere  excitement  of  the  intellect  or  heart — this  poem  is  the  noblest  in 
the  book. — Review  of  the  "Female  Poets  of  America,"  in  The  Southern  Lite~ 
retry  Messenger. 

For  imagination,  grace,  tenderness,  and  the  most  exquisite  melody  of  ver- 
sification, these  "  Birds  of  the  West"  are  entitled  to  the  admiration  of  all 
lovers  of  womanly  poetry.  They  have  but  recently  commenced  their  career, 
but  if  any  one  of  our  elder  poetesses  has  been  recognised  as  "  queen  of 
song,"  she  may  tremble  for  the  safety  of  her  crown. — New  Orleans  Com- 
mercial Times. 

The  graceful  Alice  and  Phcebe  Carey  have  written  several  exquisite  poems, 
of  a  quality  so  rare  and  delicate  that  they  owe  it  to  themselves  to  pursue 
the  art  in  the  spirit  of  its  best  masters,  with  labour  and  reverence.  The 
musical  instinct,  the  fine  sensuous  rhythm  of  their  verses,  are  very  re- 
markable. Every  admirer  of  poetry  will  look  to  their  future  productions 
with  interest. — Literary  World. 

The  poems  of  Alice  Carey  evince  no  ordinary  power  of  imagination.— 
North  American  Review. 

Alice  and  Phoebe  Carey  are  poets  of  unquestionable  genius. — New  York 
Tribune. 

The  exquisite  writings  of  Alice  and  Phoebe  Carey. — Western  Quarterly 
Review. 


^  MAR  1 5  1933  * 


POEMS 


OF 


ALICE  AND  PHCEBE  CAEET. 


"IN  THEIR   DELICIOUS   CLIME 
MO'  KING   THE  BIRDS  WITH   MORE  MELODIOUS  SONGS." 


PHILADELPHIA: 
MOSS    AND     BROTHER, 

NO.    12    SOUTH    FOURTH    STREET. 

18  5  0. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  eighteen  hun- 
dred and  forty-nine,  by  Moss  &  Brother,  in  the  Clerk's  Office 
of  the  District  Court  of  the  Eastern  District  of  Pennsylvania. 


Stereotyped  by  L    Johnson  $  Co. 

Philadelphia. 
Printed  by  T.  K.  4  P.  G.  Collins. 


Slbntrttsumnit. 


The  publishers  but  comply  with  the  general 
desire,  in  issuing  this  first  edition  of  the  collected 
writings  of  the  "two  sisters  of  the  West,"  Alice 
and  Phcebe  Carey,  whose  occasional  contribu- 
tions to  the  literary  journals  have  within  a  few 
years  secured  for  them  a  rank  among  the  most 
popular  writers  of  their  sex  in  this  country.  It 
is  believed  that  these  leaves,  gathered  into  a  vo- 
lume, will  more  than  confirm  the  favourable  judg- 
ments awarded  to  them  upon  their  original  and 
separate  appearance. 

Philadelphia,  Oct.  1849. 


ItoUu  of  tjjt  lut[icr0. 


FROM  GRISWOLD'S  FEMALE  POETS  OF  AMERICA. 


Among  the  younger  American  poets  there  are 
few  whom  we  regard  with  more  interest,  or  whose 
writings  inspire  us  with  more  hopeful  anticipations, 
than  these  two  sisters,  who  were  born  in  a  quiet 
and  pleasant  district  in  the  vicinity  of  Cincinnati, 
where  they  have  always  resided.  Their  educa- 
tion has  been  limited  by  the  meagre  and  infre- 
quent advantages  of  an  obscure  country  school, 
from  which  they  were  removed  altogether  at  a 
very  early  age ;  and  with  neither  books  nor  lite- 
rary friends  to  guide  or  encourage  them,  and  in 
circumstances  which  would  have  chilled  and  with- 
ered common  natures,  they  "  have  been  and  still 
are,  humble"  but  most  acceptable  "worshippers  in 
the  glorious  temple  of  song." 


NOTICE   OF   THE   AUTHORS.  7 

Alice  and  Phcebe  Carey  have  but  very  recently 
become  known  at  all  in  the  literary  world.  It  is 
but  two  or  three  years  since  I  first  saw  the  name 
of  either  of  them,  in  a  western  newspaper,  and  of 
nearly  a  hundred  of  the  poems  which  are  now  be- 
fore me,  probably  not  one  has  been  written  more 
than  that  time.  "We  write,"  observes  Alice  Ca- 
rey, in  a  letter  which  I  regret  that  I  may  not  copy 
here  entire,  that  the  reader's  affection  might  be 
kindled  with  his  admiration,  "we write  with  much 
facility,  often  producing  two  or  three  poems  in  a 
day,  and  never  elaborate.  We  have  printed,  ex- 
clusive of  our  early  productions,  some  three  hun- 
dred and  fifty,  which  those  in  your  possession  fairly 
represent."  And  these  are  the  fruits  of  no  lite- 
rary leisure,  but  the  mere  pastimes  of  lives  that 
are  spent  in  prosaic  duties,  lightened  and  made 
grateful  only  by  the  presence  of  the  muse. 

In  the  west,  song  gushes  and  flows,  like  the 
springs  and  rivers,  more  imperially  than  else- 
where, as  they  will  believe  who  study  her  jour- 
nals, or  who  read  these  effusions  and  those  of 
Amelia  "Welby,  the  authors  of  The  Wife  of  Leon, 
and  other  young  poets,  whose  minds  seem  to  be 
elevated,  by  the  glorious  nature   there,   into  the 


0  NOTICE   OF   THE   AUTHORS. 

atmosphere  where  all  thought  takes  a  shape  of 
beauty  and  harmony.  A  delicious  play  of  fancy 
distinguishes  much  of  the  finest  poetry  of  the 
sex;  but  Alice  Carey  evinces  in  many  poems  a 
genuine  imagination  and  a  creative  energy  that 
challenges  peculiar  praise.  We  have  perhaps  no 
other  author,  so  young,  in  whom  the  poetical 
faculty  is  so  largely  developed.  Her  sister  writes 
with  vigour,  and  a  hopeful  and  genial  spirit,  and 
there  are  many  felicities  of  expression,  particu- 
larly in  her  later  pieces.  She  refers  more  than 
Alice  to  the  common  experience,  and  has  perhaps 
a  deeper  sympathy  with  that  philosophy  and 
those  movements  of  the  day,  which  look  for  a 
nearer  approach  to  equality,  in  culture,  fortune, 
and  social  relations. 


Conttnt 


POEMS    BY    ALICE    CAREY. 

PAGE 
KEATS 15 

haxnibal's  lament  for  his  brother 19 

the  wreck 22 

i  would  tell  him  that  i  love  him 26 

the  spectre  woman 28 

the  past  and  present 30 

death  of  cleopatra 82 

palestine 83 

napoleon  at  the  death  of  duroc 35 

the  orphan  girl 37 

the  homeless 38 

a  norland  ballad 39 

MORNA 43 

ALDA 45 

THE    PIRATE 47 

THE    ORPHAN'S    DREAM  OF    LOVE 49 

THE    BLUE    SCARF 52 

9 


10  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 
THE    STRANGER'S    EPITAPH 55 

THE    BETRAYAL 58 

ANNUARY 60 

THE    CHILDREN 62 

TO  MARY 64 

THE   lover's   VISION 65 

MELODY 67 

TO    LUCY 69 

an  evening  tale 71 

sailor's  song 73 

THE    OLD    HOMESTEAD i 75 

lights  of  genius 77 

i  know  thou  art  free 78 

a  good  man 79 

hymn  of  the  true  man 80 

hymn  of  the  student  of  nature 82 

life's  angels 83 

the  pilgrim 85 

pitied  love 88 

alone  by  the  tomb 91 

two  visions 93 

lost  dillie 96 

pictures  of  memory 97 

the  two  missionaries 98 

LEILA 100 


CONTENTS.  11 

PAGE 
THE    HANDMAID 101 

THE   POOR 102 

HEAVEN  ON  EARTH 104 

FAR  AWAY 105 

THE    BETTER   LAND 106 

FIRST   LOVE .- 107 

THE    MILL   MAID 108 

LOVE 110 

DEATH Ill 

THE    CHARMED    BIRD 112 

PRIDE 113 

MISSIVE 114 

ONE   DEPARTED 115 

MUSINGS    BY   THREE    GRAVES 117 

TO    THE   EVENING   ZEPHYR 122 

THE    SAILOR'S    STORY 126 

A   LOCK   OF   HAIR 130 

VISIONS    OF    LIGHT 132 

A   LEGEND    OF    ST.  MARY'S 134 

THE   NOVICE    OF    ST.  MARY'S 137 

HELVA 139 

THE  TIME  TO  BE 140 

ELOQUENCE 142 

TO  ELMA 144 

TO  FLORA 145 


12  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 
MYRRHA 147 

TO    MYRRHA 148 

TO    THE    SPIRIT    OP    TRUTH 149 

TO    151 

THE    TWO    LOVERS 152 

ABJURATION 154 

OLD    STORIES 156 

SPECTRES    158 

LUCIFER 159 

BE    ACTIVE..    161 

DEATH'S    FERRYMAN 162 

WATCHING 164 

ON    THE    DEATH    OF   A   CHILD 166 

CRADLE    SONG 167 

SEKO 169 

THE    DESERTED  FYLGIA 171 

MUSIC 173 

orphan's    SONG 174 

BRIDGES .' 175     4 

BOOK    OF   LIGHT 176 

THE    CHILD    OF    NATURE 177 

WHERE    REST    THE    DEAD? 178 


CONTENTS.  13 
POEMS    BY    PIKE  BE    CAREY. 

PAGE 

A    STORY 181 

THE    LOVERS 188 

OUR    HOMESTEAD ~ 191 

THE   FOLLOWERS    OF    CHRIST 193 

SONNETS 198 

SYMPATHY 201 

MEMORIES 203 

MORALIZINGS 205 

DREAMING    OF    HEAVEN 207 

MORNING   THOUGHTS 208 

RESOLVES 209 

THE    MARINER'S    BRIDE 211 

THE    PRISONER'S    LAST    NIGHT 212 

SONG    OF    THE    HEART 214 

MAN    BELIEVES    THE    STRONG..." 215 

THE    CHRISTIAN   WOMAN 217 

*  THE    HOMESICK    PEASANT 219 

HOMES    FOR   ALL 220 

HARVEST    GATHERING 222 

LIFE    IS    NOT   VANITY 224 

PRAYER 226 

MORNING 227 

BVF.IAL    HYMN 229 

2 


14  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

SONG   OF   THE    REFORMED 230 

THE    COLD   WATER   ARMY 231 

COMING    HOME . 233 

THE    REEFER 234 

A   TIME    TO    DIE 235 

DEATH    SCENE 237 

THE    PLACE    OF    GRAVES.... 238 

PARTING   AND    MEETING 239 

DEATH    OF   A   FRIEND 240 

LOVE    AT    THE    GRAVE 242 

STRENGTH    OF    SIN 244 

THE    WOMBS   AT   THE    SEPULCHRE 246 

MELODY... 247 

CHANGES 248 

FEARS 250 

THE   WATCHER 252 

CHALMERS 254 

SONG • 256 

THE    CONFESSION 257 

THE   ILLS    OF   LIFE 258 

THE    BRIDE 260 


i 


REMEMBRANCE 


263 


POEMS  BY  ALICE  CAREY. 


£* 


KEATS. 

Till  the  future  dares 
Forget  the  past,  his  fate  and  fame  shall  be 
An  echo  and  a  light  into  eternity. — Shelley. 

Across  the  southern  hills  comes  the  young  May, 

In  her  lap  bearing,  wet  with  honied  showers, 
White  and  blue  violets,  open  to  the  day, 

Blush  roses,  and  the  yellow  cowslip  flowers; 
But  from  her  o'er-full  arms  they  lean  away 

Toward  the  melodious  shadows  of  warm  June, 
Where  their  first  love  a  pallid  ghost  doth  stray, 

Like  a  lorn  maiden  wailing  'neath  the  moon. 

A  very  queen  of  beauty  doth  she  move, 

Waving  her  vermeil-blossomed  wand  in  air; 
While  Hope  with  crimsoning  cheek,  and  soft-eyed  Love, 

Sprinkle  the  yellow  sunshine  of  her  hair 
With  winking  flower-stars,  and  the  blue  above 

With  its  dropped  hem  of  silver,  beauteously 
Edged  with  the  sea-green  fringes  of  the  grove, 

Tents  her  about  with  glory  fair  to  see. 

15 


16  POEMS   BY   ALICE   CAREY. 

Alone  I  sit,  and  yet  not  all  alone, 

For  unsubstantial  beings  near  me  tread; 
At  times  I 'hear  them  piteously  moan — 

Haply  a  plaint  for  the  o'er-gifted  dead, 
That,  to  the  perfectness  of  stature  grown, 

Had  filled  the  vacant  heart  of  Time  for  aye 
With  a  deep  sea  of  melody  unknown, 

And  sunken  from  the  embracing  light  of  day. 

And  yet  alone,  for  not  a  human  heart 

Stirs  with  tumultuous  throbbings  the  deep  hush; 
Almost  the  blue  air  seems  to  fall  apart 

From  the  delirious  warble  of  the  thrush — 
A  wave  of  lovely  sound  untouched  of  art, 

That  floats  above  me  like  embodied  joy: 
0  for  such  wasteless  dowery,  to  impart 

Delight  so  dainty  and  without  alloy  ! 

Deep  in  the  shady  cincture  of  the  vale 

I  hear  a  long  and  melancholy  cry, 
As  a  lost  spirit  might  in-  anguish  wail, 

Clinging  to  sin,  yet  longing  for  the  sky : 
And  o'er  the  hill-tops,  crowned  with  verdure  pale, 

A  gnarled  oak  lifts  above  its  fellow  trees 
Its  gray  head,  palsy-stricken  by  the  gale, 

Defiant  of  the  lapse  of  centuries. 

A  golden  cloud  above  the  sunken  sun 

Holds  the  first  star  of  the  night's  solemn  train, 

Clasped  from  the  world's  profaneness,  like  a  nun 
Behind  the  shelter  of  the  convent  pane : 


% 


KEATS.  17 

Did  the  delicious  light  of  such  a  ouc 

Fleck  his  dark  pathway  with  its  shimmering  fire, 
Whose  fingers,  till  life's  little  day  was  done, 

Clung  like  pale  kisses  to  the  charmed  lyre  ? 

I've  read,  in  some  chance  fragment  of  old  song, 

A  tale  to  muse  of  in  this  lovely  light, 
About  a  maiden  fled  from  cruel  wrong 

Into  the  chilly  darkness  of  the  night; 
Upon  whose  milk-white  bosom,  cold  and  long, 

Beat  the  rough  tempest;  but  a  waiting  arm 
"Was  reaching  toward  her,  and  in  hope  grown  strong, 

Fled  she  along  the  woods  and  through  the  storm. 

But  how  had  he  or  heart  or  hope  to  sing 

Of  Madeline  or  Porphyro  the  brave, 
While  the  dim  fingers  of  pale  suffering 

Were  pressing  down  his  eyelids  to  the  grave  ? 
How  could  he  to  the  shrine  of  genius  bring 

The  constant  spirit  of  a  bended  knee, 
Ruffling  the  horrent  blackness  of  Death's  wing 

With  the  clear  echoes  of  eternity  ? 

Hark !  ^as  it  but  the  wind  that  swept  along, 

Shivering  the  hawthorn,  pale  with  milky  flowers  ? 
The  swan-like  music  of  the  dying  song 

Seems  swimming  on  the  bosom  of  the  hours. 
If  Fancy  cheats  me  thus,  she  does  no  wrong — 

With  mists  of  glory  is  my  heart  o'erblown, 
And  shapes  of  beauty  round  about  me  throng, 

When  of  that  mused  rhyme  I  catch  the  tone. 


18  POEMS   BY   ALICE   CAREY. 

0  lost  and  radiant  wanderer  of  the  storm, 

Beauty  eternal  shines  along  the  wave, 
That  bore  thee  on  like  an  o'ermastering  arm 

To  the  blind  silence  of  the  hungry  grave ; 
Nor  genial  spring,  nor  summer  sunshine  warm, 

Broken  to  flakes  of  gold  by  boughs  of  gloom, 
Hath  power  to  make  life's  frozen  current  warm, 

And  the  dark  house  of  dust  to  re-illume. 

Tell  me,  ye  sobbing  winds,  what  sign  ye  made, 

Making  the  year  with  dismal  pity  rife, 
"When  the  all-levelling  and  remorseless  shade 

Closed  o'er  the  lovely  summer  of  his  life  ? 
Did  the  sad  hyacinths  by  the  fountains  fade, 

And  tear-drops  touch  the  eyelids  of  the  morn, 
And  Muses,  empty-armed,  the  gods  upbraid, 

When  that  great  sorrow  to  the  world  was  born  ? 

Did  Death  stoop  softly,  and  with  gentle  tone 

Sweetly  dispose  his  pallid  limbs  to  rest, 
As  down  the  shadowy  way  he  went  alone, 

With  Love's  young  music  trembling  in  his  breast  ? 
Then  sunk  as  fair  a  star  as  ever  shone 

Along  the  gray  and  melancholy  air ) 
And  from  Parnassus'  hoary  front,  o'ergrown 

With  plants  immortal,  moaned  infirm  Despair. 

Weave  close,  ye  woods,  your  blooming  boughs  to-night, 
Shut  from  my  sense  the  joyous  insect  choir, 

And  all  the  intense  stars  whose  wannish  light 
Checkers  the  wavy  grass  like  spots  of  fire : 


hannibal' s  lament  for  his  brother.       19 

Nature  for  my  sad  thought  is  all  too  bright, 
And  half  I  long  for  clouds  to  veil  the  sky, 

And  softly  weep  for  the  untimely  blight 
Of  all  of  him  I  sing  of  that  could  die. 

The  yellow  leaves  that  covered  up  his  grave 

Are  hidden  by  the  monumental  stone;     ■ 
Immortal  amaranths  o'er  his  slumber  wave, 

And  fame's  deep  trumpet  to  the  world  has  blown 
The  echoes  of  his  lyre.     In  her  mute  cave, 

Silence  shall  lock  my  little  song  away, 
And  the  vain  longing  for  the  fount  that  gave 

1LU  name  to  glory,  perish  with  the  clay. 


HANNIBAL'S  LAMENT   FOR   HIS  BROTHER. 

In  the  rich  shadows  of  a  gorgeous  tent 

Sat  the  famed  chief  of  Carthage,  as  through  bars 
Of  heavy  gold  the  day's  last  beams  were  sent; 

And  Eve,  in  her  tiara  of  bright  stars 
And  garniture  of  purple,  to  her  breast 
Like  a  fond  mother,  took  her  child  to  rest. 
The  boding  phantom  of  his  bosom  brings 

The  Alps  before  him,  with  their  icy  cr 
For  victory,  with  her  broad  and  starry  wings, 

Is  settling  brightly  on  the  Roman  fla 
And  as  the  silent  shadows  round  him  close, 
His  voice  finds  way  through  barriers  of  woes  : — 


20  POEMS   BY   ALICE   CAREY. 

"  My  lost,  my  fallen  brother  !  can  it  be 

That  the  proud  beauty  of  thy  brow  is  dim, 
Bright  ,victor  of  fierce  battles  ?     Is  the  dust 

That  hides  the  commonest  soldier,  strewed  o'er  thee? 
And  must  thy  falchion  ignominious  rust  ? 

Yet,  he  fell  bravely,  not  unworthy  him 
Who  was  the  offspring  of  a  battle-star, 
And  cradled  in  the  bloody  arms  of  war  ! 
And  'tis  my  joy  that  he  was  not  of  those 

Who  shrink  from  peril;  with  a  stoic's  pride 
He  bared  his  bosom  to  his  country's  foes, 

And,  rushing  to  the  combat,  fought  and  died ! 
Lost  star  of  glory  !  in  my  childhood's  time 

Thou  wert  my  sweetest  counsellor  and  guide ; 
And  in  the  freshness  of  my  manhood's  prime 

I  wooed  thee  to  my  bosom  as  a  bride  : 
But  thou,  whose  banner  in  the  dust  is  veiled, 

With  thee  the  aim  of  my  existence  died ; 
And  Fear,  that  never  until  now  assailed, 

Sits  like  a  mocking  demon  by  my  side  ! 

"  For  hungry  wolves,  the  Spartan  mothers  tore 
The  babes  from  their  warm  bosoms,  every  day ; 

And  if  they  smiled  not,  they  at  least  forebore 
To  give  vain  sorrow  an  o'ermastering  sway : 

And  have  I  more  to  sacrifice  than  they  ? 

Yes,  time,  in  part,  their  losses  might  restore, 

But  mine  must  be  remediless  for  aye. 

u  I  hear  the  constant  singing  of  the  streams, 
Down  in  the  vineyards,  beautiful  and  wide, — 


iia.nnibal's  lament  for  llis  brother.       21 

0  thou  enibitterer  of  my  goldenest  dreams, 
I  thought  to  conquer  thee  before  I  died  ! 

Ye  gods !  must  I  be  rifled  of  that  joy, 

And  taunted  like  a  beardless,  love-sick  boy  ! 

Yet  have  I  battled  with  Rome's  chiefest  men, 
And  triumphed  gloriously;  her  brazen  gates 

Had  not  availed  her  haughty  spirit  then, 
Had  I  led  firmly  onward, — but  the  Fates 

Made  me  their  sport  and  plaything,  when  one  blow, 

Dealt  by  the  hand  of  her  eternal  foe, 

Had  crushed  her  power  and  placed  her  at  my  feet, — 

Her  mighty  heart  my  pillow  :  this  were  sweet ! 

"Gaul's  proudest  chivalry  I've  met  in  fight, 
And  trampled  them  as  reeds  upon  the  plain; 

Slaughtered  at  bay,  and  hunted  down  in  flight, 
They  cried  for  quarter,  but  they  cried  in  vain ; 

And  the  blue  waters  of  the  Rhone  that  night 

Stood  red  and  stagnant,  choked  with  heaps  of  slain  !' 

Were  there  no  spectral  shadows  gliding  there, 

0  baffled  champion,  for  thy  country's  weal? 
No  semblances  of  "  angels  with  bright  hair 

Dabbled  in  blood,"  to  fix  the  damning  seal 
To  a  close-hugged  ambition  ?     Better  dwell 

The  lowliest  shepherd  of  Arcadia's  bowers, 
Than  mount  to  where  the  insatiate  fire  of  hell, 

Like  to  a  serpent's  tooth,  the  heart  devours ! 


22  POEMS   BY   ALICE   CAREY. 


THE   WRECK. 

Veiled  were  our  topsails  to  the  blast;  our  helm  was 

lashed  a-lee; 
And  fearlessly  our  vessel  drove  before  a  stormy  sea,— 
0,  safely  in  our  midst  that  night  had  lain  an  empire's 

crown  j 
For  every  mariner  had  said  our  vessel  must  go  down ! 

Some  shrieked  aloud ;  some  humbly  knelt,  who  never 

knelt  before ; 
And  some,  with  outstretched  arms,  looked  forth  toward 

the  viewless  shore; 
And  rougher  still  the  rough  wind  blew,  and  heavier 

roll'd  the  sea, 
Till  every  heart  was  poured  in  prayer,  God  of  the 

storm,  to  Thee. 

At  length,  about  the  middle  watch,  an  aged  man,  and 

gray* 

Right  in  the  solemn  hush,  stood  up,  and  said  he  could 
not  pray ; 

And  while,  above  our  gallant  deck,  the  mountain- 
billows  broke, 

Each  soul  forgot  the  storm,  while  thus  the  trembling 
sinner  spoke : — 


THE   WRECK.  23 

u  I've  been  a  rover  of  the  seas  these  four-and-forty  years, 
And,  in  their  darkest  hours,  my  eyes  have  been  ashamed 

of  tears ; 
But  now  I  fain  would  give  myself  an  offering  to  the  deep, 
If  I  could  say  the  prayers  you  say,  or  weep  as  you  can 

weep. 

u  The  blackest  clouds  along  the  sky,  through  which  the 

thunders  roll, 
Are  calm  as  peace,  when  measured  with  the  tempest  in 

my  soul : 
Once,  when  my  heart  was  innocent,  and  joyous  as  a  bird's, 
My  mother  taught  me  how  to  pray — I  cannot  say  the 

words. 

"'Tis  well  that  mother  died  so  soon,  for  oft,  I  know,  she 

smiled, 
And  talked  about  the  happiness  that  waited  for  her  child; 
And  I  have  been  long  years  of  those  whose  troublings 

never  cease, 
Aside  from  Virtue's  pleasant  ways  and  all  her  paths 

of  peace. 

?'My  spirit  grew  the  house  of  pride;    I  scorned  our 

humble  cot, 
And   deemed   that,  for  my  lowliness,  the  world  had 

loved  me  not. 
Once,  when  the  night  was  dark,  like  this,  the  thunder's 

roll  as  deep, 
There  was  a  whisper  in  my  heart  that  would  not  let 

me  sleep. 


24  POEMS   BY   ALICE   CAREY. 

"  I  knew  'twas  Satan  telling  me,  Thou  shalt  not  surely 

die; 
And  yet  I  went,  as  goes  the  bird,  down  to  the  serpent's 

eye. 
Hard  by  my  father's  cot  there  dwelt  a  harmless  man, 

and  old, 
Whose  house  was  filled  with  merchandise  and  shining 

heaps  of  gold. 

"That  night  I  sought  his  dwelling  out,  and  with  a 

stealthy  tread, 
"Winding  the  gloomy  passages,  I  stood  beside  his  bed. 
I  said  the  night  was  dark  with  storm;    but,  by  the 

lightning's  beam — 
(Oh,  would  to  Heaven  the  arm  upraised  had  withered  in 

its  gleam) — 

"I  saw  him  :   I  have  been,  since  then,  in  lighted  halls 

of  mirth — 
In  deserts  vast,  and  palaces,  and  caverns  of  the  earth — 
A  thousand  and  a  thousand  times  Fve  sailed  across  the 

deep, 
And  that  old  man  has  with  me  been,  awake,  and  in  my 

sleep. 

"Almost  my  heart  misgave  me  once,  so  wan  he  looked, 

and  old; 
But  when  I  turned  to  flee  away,  I  saw  the  cursed  gold ; 
And  so   I  slew  him, — twice  he  stirred,  and  once  he 

feebly  cried, 
As  with  a  rough  and  heavy  stone  I  smote  him  till  he  died. 


g 

THE    WRECK.  25 

"Then  clutching,  in  my  bloody  hands  the  prize,  I  fled 

away; 
But  shapeless  things  had  followed  me,  that  I  could 

never  slay. 
Three  days  in  the  thick  woods  I  hid,  afraid  of  every 

sound, 
And  o'er  and  o'er  I  washed  my  hands  in  every  pool  I 

found. 

"  My  guilt  upon  the  withered  leaves  seemed  writ,  as  on 

a  scroll, 
And  every  wandering  wind  I  met  was  questioning  my 

soul : 
I  thought  the  dead  man's  gold  so  thrilled  the  marrow 

in  my  bones, 
And,  seeking  out  a  lonesome  cave,  I  hid  it  in  the  stones. 

"But  still  there  were  accusing  tongues  in  herb,  and 

flower,  and  tree, 
And  so  I  left  the  haunts  of  men,  and  wandered  on  the 

sea"— 
Just  then  our  fated  vessel  struck  upon  a  rocky  shore, — 
One  shriek  arose,  and  all  again  grew  silent  as  before. 

I  floated,  as  by  miracle,  upon  the  off-torn  deck, 

And  knew  not  any  living  soul  was  with  me  on  the 

wreck ; 
But  when  the  morn,  with  misty  e}-es,  looked   down 

upon  the  tide, 
That  old  man,  with  his  arms  across,  was  sitting  at  my 

3 


26  POEMS   BY  ALICE   CAREY. 


I  WOULD  TELL  HIM  THAT  I  LOYE   HIM. 

I  would  tell  him  that  I  love  him,  but  I  know  my 

tongue  would  fail, 
For  his  heart  is  proud  and  haughty,  and  would  scorn 

the  simple  tale ; 
Since  my  feet  have  never  wandered  from  the  home 

where  I  was  born, 
Save  among  the  pleasant  meadows  and  the  fields  of 

yellow  corn. 

No  !  my  lips  shall  never  speak  it,  for  he  knows  I  love 

him  now !  4% 

He  has  seen  the  burning  blushes  on  my  cheek  and  on 

my  brow ; 
He  has  heard  my  accent  falter  when  he  said  that  we 

must  part, 
And  he  must  have  read  the  writing  that  is  written  in 

my  heart ! 

Unlearned  am  I  in  eloquence,  save  that  of  gentle  words, 
And  I  never  harked  to  music  that  was  sweeter  than  the 

birds' — 
0  !  if  his  haughty  mother  knew  I  loved  but  half  so  well, 
She  would  hate  me  with  a  bitterness  that  words  could 

never  tell ! 


I   WOULD   TELL   HIM   THAT   I   LOVE   HIM.  27 

I've  left  my  gentle  sister  and  her  ever  warm  embrace 
When  I  knew  that  young  Sir  Richard  would  be  coming 

from  the  chase; 
For  somehow  oft  it  chances  in  our  rambles  that  we  meet, 
And  I  think — shall  I  deny  it  ? — that  a  stolen  kiss  is 

sweet ! 

Last  night  I  dreamed  I  stood  with  him  before  a  man 

of  prayer, 
With  the  garland  of  white  blossoms,  that  he  gave  me, 

in  my  hair ; 
And  he  called  me  by  a  dearer  name  than  sister,  or  than 

friend — 
0 !  how  I  wish  so  sweet  a  dream  had  never  had  an  end ! 

Not  for  his  lordly  castles  and  his  acres  of  broad  land 
Do  I  love  young  Richard  Percy ;  for  with  but  his  heart 

and  hand, 
A  cabin  in  the  wilderness,  a  cavern  by  the  sea, 
Or  a  tent  in  the  wide  desert,  would  be  home  enough 

for  me. 


28  POEMS    BY   ALICE   CAREY. 


THE   SPECTRE  WOMAN. 

Along  the  hollow  chancel  the  winds  of  autumn  sung, 

And  the  heavy  flitting  of  the  bat  was  heard  the  aisles 
among ; 

The  sky  was  full  of  stars  that  night,  the  moon  was  at 
the  full, 

And  yet  about  the  old  gray  church  the  light  was  some- 
thing dull. 

And  in  that  solemn  churchyard,  where  the  mould  was 

freshly  thrown, 
Wrapped  in  a  thin,  cold  sheet,  there  sat  a  lovely  maid 

alone : 
The  dark  and  tangled  tresses  half  revealed  her  bosom's 

charms, 
And  a  something  that  lay  hidden,  like  a  birdling  in  her 

arms. 

By  that  pale,  sad  brow  of  beauty,  and  the  locks  that  fall 

so  low, 
And  by  the  burning  blushes  in  that  lovely  cheek,  I 

know 
She  hath  listened  to  the  tempter,  she  hath  heard  his 

whisper  dread, 
When  the  "  Get  behind  me,  Satan,"  hath  been  all  too 

faintly  said. 


THE    SPECTRE   WOMAN.  29 

It  was  not  the  willows  trailing,  as  the  winds  among 

them  stole, 
That  was  heard  there  at  the  midnight,  nor  the  digging 

of  the  mole  ; 
Nor  yet  the  dry  leaves  dropping  where  the  grass  was 

crushed  and  damp, 
And  the  light  that  shone  so  spectral  was  not  the  firefly's 

lamp. 

The  pale  moon  veiled  her  beauty  in  a  lightly  passing 

cloud, 
When  a  voice  was  heard  thrice  calling  to  that  woman 

in  the  shroud  ! 
But  whether  fiend  or  angel  were  for  her  spirit  come, 
The  lips  that  could  have  told  it  have  long  been  sealed 

and  dumb. 

But  they  say,  who  pass  that  churchyard  at  the  dead 

watch  of  the  night, 
That  a  woman  in  her  grave-clothes,  when  the  moon  is 

full  and  bright, 
Is  seen  to  bend  down  fondly,  but  without  a  mother's 

pride, 
Over  something  in  her  bosom  that  her  tresses  cannot 

hide. 


P 


30  POEMS   BY   ALICE   CAREY. 


THE  PAST  AND  PRESENT. 

Ye  everlasting  conjurors  of  ill, 

Who  fear  the  Samiel  in  the  lightest  breeze, 
Go,  moralize  with  Alarms,  if  you  will, 

In  the  old  cradle  of  the  sciences  ! 
Bid  the  sarcophagi  unclose  their  lids — 

Drag  the  colossal  sphinxes  forth  to  view — 
Rouse  up  the  builders  of  the  pyramids, 

And  raise  the  labyrinthian  shrines  anew; 
And  see  the  haughty  favourite  of  the  fates — 

The  arbiter  of  myriad  destinies  : 
Thebes,  with  her  "feast  of  lights''  and  hundred  gates,- 

And  Carthage,  mother  of  sworn  enmities, 
Not  mantled  with  the  desolate  weeds  and  dust 

Of  centuries,  but  as  she  sat  apart, 
Nursing  her  lions,  ere  the  eagle  thrust 

His  bloody  talons  deep  into  her  heart; — 
Then  say,  what  was  she  in  her  palmiest  times 

That  we  should  mourn  for  ever  for  the  past  ? 
In  fame,  a  very  Babylon — her  crimes 

The  plague-spot  of  the  nations  to  the  last ! 

And  Rome  !  the  seven-hilled  city  :  she  that  rose, 
Girt  with  the  majesty  of  peerless  might, 

From  out  the  ashes  of  her  fallen  foes — 

She  in  whose  lap  was  poured,  like  streams  of  light, 


THE   PAST  AND   PRESENT.  31 

The  wealth  of  nations :  was  she  not  endowed 

"With  that  most  perilous  gift  of  beaut}- — pride  ? 
And  spite  of  all  her  glories  blazoned  loud, 

Idolatrous,  voluptuous,  and  allied 

r  to  vice  than  virtue  ?     Hark  !  the  sounds 

Of  tramping  thousands  in  her  stony  street ! 
And  now  the  amphitheatre  resounds 

With  acclamations  for  the  engrossing  feat ! 
Draw  near,  where  men  of  wars  and  senates  stood, 

And  see  the  pastime,  whence  they  joyance  drank, — 
The  Lybian  lion  lapping  the  warm  blood 

Oozed  from  the  Dacian's  bosom.     On  the  bank 
Of  the  sweet  Danube,  smiling  children  wait 
To  greet  their  sire,  unconscious  of  his  fate. 
Oh  draw  the  wildering  veil  a  little  back, 

Ye  blind  idolaters  of  things  that  were  ; 
Who,  through  the  glory  trailing  in  their  track, 

See  but  the  whiteness  of  the  sepulchre  ! 

Then  to  the  Present  turning,  ye  will  see 

Even  as  one,  the  universal  mind 
Rousing,  like  genius  from  a  reverie, 

With  the  exalted  aim  to  serve  mankind : 
Lo  !  as  my  song  is  closing,  I  can  feel 

The  spirit  of  the  Present  in  my  heart ; 
And  for  the  future,  with  a  wiser  zeal, 

In  life's  great  drama  I  would  act  my  part : 
That  they  may  say,  who  see  the  curtain  fall 

And  from  the  closing  scene  in  silence  go, 
Haply  as  some  light  favour  they  recall, 

Peace  to  her  ashes, — she  hath  lessened  wo  ! 


32  POEMS   BY   ALICE   CAREY. 


DEATH   OF   CLEOPATRA. 

The  stars  of  Egypt's  haughty  crown 

Were  settled  on  the  brow, 
And  many  a  purple  wave  swept  down 

From  royal  dust  below. 
Girt  with  the  realms  that  owned  her  power, 

Enthroned  in  regal  pride, 
With  priceless  kingdoms  for  a  dower, 

Imperial  beauty  died. 

The  spoils  of  cities  overthrown 

Her  broad  dominion  lined ; 
With  pearls  her  palaces  were  sown 

As  blossoms  by  the  wind. 
Her  merchant-ships  on  every  sea 

The  royal  flag  unrolled, 
Laden  with  spices  heavily 

And  fragrant  oil  and  gold. 

And  yet  from  all  the  proud  array 

That  gather  round  a  throne, 
The  queen  imperious  turned  away, 

Sickened,  and  died  alone. 
How  died  she  ?     Through  her  chamber  dim 

Did  songs  and  victories  roll  ? 
And  were  there  fervent  prayer  and  hymn 

Said  for  the  parting  soul  ? 


PALEST I 

Not  so :  they  brought  her  robes  of  stat*'; 

And  decked  her  for  the  tomb, 
And,  cumbered  with  the  gorgeous  weight, 

She  proudly  met  her  doom  : 
And  o'er  the  hand  of  heavy  clay 

That  once  had  guided  wars, 
In  all  their  mocking  beauty  lay 

The  purple  and  the  stars. 

Earth  lent  her  soul  no  power  to  stem 

Such  stormy  waves  as  were ; 
And  the  sweet  star  of  Bethlehem 

Had  risen  not  for  her. 
0  Thou,  who  daily  givest  its  beams, 

Be  the  dark  sins  forgiven 
Of  her  whose  wild  and  mystic  dreams 

"Were  all  she  knew  of  Heaven. 


PALESTINE. 

Bright  inspiration  !  shadowing  my  heart 
Like  a  sweet  dream  of  beauty — could  I  see 

Tabor  and  Carmel  ere  I  hence  depart, 
And  tread  the  quiet  vales  of  Galilee, 

And  look  from  Hermon,  with  its  dew  and  flowers, 
D  the  broken  walls  and  mossy  towers 

O'er  which  the  Son  of  man  in  sadness  wept, 

The  dearest  promise  of  my  life  were  kept. 


#34  POEMS  BY  ALICE   CAREY. 

Alas  !  the  beauteous  cities,  crowned  with  flowers, 

And  robed  with  royalty !  no  more  in  thee, 
Fretted  with  golden  pinnacles  and  towers, 

They  sit  in  haughty  beauty  by  the  sea : 
Shadows  of  rocks,  precipitate  and  dark, 

Rest  still  and  heavy  where  they  found  a  grave ; 
There  glides  no  more  the  humble  fisher's  bark, 

And  the  wild  heron  drinks  not  of  the  wave. 

But  still  the  silvery  willows  fringe  the  rills, 

Judea's  shepherd  watches  still  his  fold; 
And  round  about  Jerusalem  the  hills 

Stand  in  their  solemn  grandeur  as  of  old ) 
And  Sharon's  roses  still  as  sweetly  bloom 

As  when  the  apostles,  in  the  days  gone  by, 
Rolled  back  the  shadows  from  the  dreary  tomb, 

And  brought  to  light  life's  immortality. 

The  East  has  laid  down  many  a  beauteous  bride 

In  the  dim  silence  of  the  sepulchre, 
Whose  names  are  shrined  in  story,  but  beside 

Their  lives  no  sign  to  tell  they  ever  were. 
The  imperial  fortresses  of  old  renown — 

Rome,  Carthage,  Thebes — alas!  where  are  they  now? 
In  the  dim  distance  lost  and  crumbled  down ; 

The  glory  that  was  of  them,  from  her  brow 
Took  of  the  wreath  in  centuries  gone  by, 

And  walked  the  Path  of  Shadows  silently. 

But,  Palestine !  what  hopes  are  born  of  thee — 
I  cannot  paint  their  beauty — hopes  that  rise, 


NAPOLEON  AT  THE  DEATH  OF  DUROC.      35 

Linking  this  perishing  mortality 

To  the  bright,  deathless  glories  of  the  skies  ! 
There  the  sweet  Babe  of  Bethlehem  was  born — 

Love's  mission  finished  there  in  Calvary's  gloom ; 
There  blazed  the  glories  of  the  rising  morn, 

And  Death  lay  gasping  there  at  Jesus'  tomb ! 


NAPOLEON  AT  THE  DEATH  OF  DUROC. 

Thou  who  movest  through,  the  tent-lights 

Like  a  cloud  among  the  stars, 
With  the  flags  about  thee  streaming 

Like  the  shadows  of  red  Mars ; 

Art  thou  he  who  lately  slumbered 

By  the  Nile  with  turbans  red, 
While  the  children  of  the  desert 

Wailed  about  thee  for  their  dead  ? 

Yes,  thou'rt  he  whose  standards  fluttered 
Where  the  Rhine's  bright  billows  flow, 

And  where  brave  men  left  their  footprints 
Red  in  Hohenlinden's  snow ! 

He,  upon  whose  shattered  columns, 
Darkened  by  the  artillery's  frown, 

At  the  awful  Beresina, 

Victory's  starry  wings  came  down  ! 


36  POEMS   BY   ALICE   CAREY. 

From  the  plains  of  Rio  Seco 
To  Siberia's  mountain  heights, 

Grlory  with  thy  name  is  blended, 
Hero  of  a  thousand  fights  ! 

Yet  thou  movest'  through  the  tent-lights 
Like  a  cloud  among  the  stars, 

With  the  flags  about  thee  floating 
Like  the  shadows  of  red  Mars. 

One  thy  great  soul  loves  is  dying, 
One  of  courage  true  and  tried, 

And  the  spirit  faints,  and  triumph 
Fails  before  affection's  tide. 

Hark !  the  bursts  of  lordly  music 
On  the  midnight  rise  and  fall ! 

Wounded  Eagle  of  the  Legion, 
Wilt  thou  answer  to  its  call  ? 

Yes,  the  Imperial  Guard  are  flying 
Toward  the  dark  tent  of  the  king  ! 

Death  hath  taken  home  his  captive, 
Is  the  tidings  which  they  bring ! 

Therefore  moves  he  through  the  tent-lights 
Like  a  cloud  among  the  stars, 

With  the  flags  about  him  trailing 
Like  the  shadows  of  red  Mars  ! 


THE   ORPHAN   GIRL.  37 


THE  ORPHAN  GIRL. 

My  heart  shall  rest  where  greenly  flow 

The  willows  o'er  the  meadow — 
The  fever  of  this  burning  brow, 

Be  cooled  beneath  their  shadow. 
When  summer  birds  go  singing  by, 

And  sweet  rain  wakes  the  blossom, 
My  weary  hands  shall  folded  lie 

Upon  a  peaceful  bosom. 

When,  Nature,  shall  the  night  begin 

That  morning  ne'er  displaces, 
And  I  be  calmly  folded  in 

Thy  long  and  still  embraces  ? 
Dearer  than  to  the  Arab  maid, 

When  sands  are  hotly  glowing, 
The  deep  well  and  the  tented  shade, 

Were  peace  of  thy  bestowing. 

My  soul  was  once  a  house  of  light, 

Whose  joy  might  not  be  spoken; 
But  Fancy  wore  a  wing  too  bright, 

And  now  my  heart  is  broken  ! 
But  where  the  violets  darkly  bloom, 

And  greenly  flows  the  willow — 
Down  on  the  pavement  of  the  tomb, 

There  waits  a  quiet  pillow. 


38  POEMS   BY   ALICE   CAREY. 


THE   HOMELESS. 

As  down  on  the  wing  of  the  raven, 

Or  drops  on  the  upas-tree  lie, 
So  darkness  and  blight  are  around  me 

To-night,  I  can  scarcely  tell  why  ! 
Alone  in  the  populous  city  ! 

No  hearth  for  my  coming  is  warm, 
And  the  stars,  the  sweet  stars,  are  all  hidden 

On  high  in  the  cloud  and  the  storm ! 

The  memories  of  things  that  are  saddest, 

The  phantoms  unbidden  that  start 
From  the  ashes  of  hopes  that  have  perished, 

Are  with  me  to-night  in  my  heart ! 
Alas  !  in  this  desolate  sorrow, 

The  moments  are  heavy  and  long ; 
And  the  white-pinioned  spirit  of  Fancy 

Is  weary,  and  hushes  her  song. 

One  word  of  the  commonest  kindness 

Could  make  all  around  me  seem  bright, 
As  birds  in  the  haunts  of  the  summer, 

Or  lights  in  a  village  at  night ) 
But,  lacking  that  word,  on  my  spirit 

There  settles  the  heaviest  gloom, 
And  I  sit  with  the  midnight  around  me, 

And  long  for  the  peace  of  the  tomb. 


A   NORLAND   BALLAD. 


A  NORLAND  BALLAD. 

The  train  of  the  Xorse-King 

Still  wind  the  descents, 
Leading  down  where  the  waste-ridge 

Is  white  with  his  tents ; 
The  eve-star  is  climbing 

Above  where  they  tie, 
Like  hills  at  the  harvest-time, 

Pale  with  the  rye. 

"Who  comes  through  the  red  light 

Of  bivouac  and  torch, 
With  footsteps  unslackened 

By  fasting  or  march  ? 
Majestic  in  sorrow, 

No  white  hand,  I  trow, 
Can  take  from  that  forehead 

Its  pale  seal  of  wo ! 

Pa-t  grooms  that  are  merrily 

Combing  the  steeds, 
To  the  tent  of  the  Xorse-King 

He  hurriedly  speeds; 
A  right  noble  chieftain, — 

That  gloved  hand,  I  know, 
Has  swooped  the  ger-falcon 

And  bended  the  bow. 


40  POEMS   BY   ALICE   CAREY. 

Outspeaks  he  the  counsel 

He  comes  to  afford — 
"  As  loves  this  engloved  hand 

The  hilt  of  my  sword ; 
As  loves  the  pale  martyr 

The  sacrament  seal, 
My  heart  loves  my  liege  lord 

And  prays  for  his  weal. 

"  I  once  wooed  a  maiden, 

As  fair  to  my  sight 
As  the  bride  of  the  Norse-King 

I  plead  for  to-night ; 
As  thou  dost,  I  tarried, 

Her  fond  faith  to  prove, 
And  the  wall  of  the  convent 

Grew  up  'twixt  our  love. 

"Hold  we  to  our  marching 

Three  leagues  from  this  ridge, 
And  we  compass  our  rear-guard 

With  moat  and  with  bridge  : 
Give  one  heart  such  shriving 

As  priest  can  afford, 
And  a  sweet  loving  lady 

The  arms  of  her  lord  ! 

"0  felt  you  sweet  pity 
For  half  I  have  borne, 
The  scourgings,  the  fastings, 
The  lip  never  shorn ; 


A   NORLAND   BALLAD.  41 

You  fain  would  not  linger 

For  wassail's  wild  sway, 
But,  leaping  td'saddle, 

Would  hold  on  the  way." 

Outspoke  then  the  Norse-King, 

Half  pity,  half  scorn, 
"Go  back  to  thy  fasting 

And  keep  thee  unshorn ; 
No  tale  of  a  woman 

Pause  I  to  divine  •" 
And  from  the  full  goblet 

His  lip  kissed  the  wine. 

Then  fell  sire  and  liegeman 

To  feasting  and  song; 
I  ween  to  such  maskers 

The  night  was  not  long  : 
And  but  one  little  trembler 

Stood  pale  in  the  arch, 
When  gave  the  king  signal 

To  take  up  the  march. 

If  clanger  forewarn  him, 

The  omen  he  hides, 
And  mounting  right  gayly, 

He  sings  as  he  rides  : 
"Now,  bird  of  the  border, 

Look  forth  for  thy  chief; 
By  the  bones  of  St.  Peter, 

Thy  watch  shall  be  brief!" 


42  POEMS   BY  ALICE   CAREY. 

"  Stand  forth,  wretched  augur," 

He  cries  in  his  wrath, 
As  his  foam-covered  charger 

Has  struck  on  the  path 
Leading  down  to  his  castle; 

"  Stand  forth,  here  is  moat 
And  drawbridge  to  charge  back 

The  lie  in  thy  throat !" 

"Pause,  son  of  the  mighty, 

My  bode  is  not  lost 
Till  the  step  of  the  master 

The  lintel  has  crossed ; 
And  then  if  my  counsel 

Prove  ghostly  or  vain  " — 
The  king  smiled  in  triumph 

And  flung  down  the  rein. 

Lo  !  passed  is  the  threshold, 

None  answer  his  call ; 
Why  starts  he  and  trembles  ? 

There's  blood  in  the  hall ! 
His  step  through  the  corridor 

Hurriedly  flies, 
'Tis  only  an  echo 

That  answers  his  cries. 

One  pale  golden  ringlet 

That  kissed  the  white  cheek 

Of  the  sweet  Saxish  lady 
They  find  as  they  seek  : 


MORNA.  43 


There  was  mounting  of  heralds 

In  hot  haste,  I  ween, 
3ut  the  bride  of  the  Norse-King 

"Was  never  more  seen. 


MORNA. 

Alas  !  'tis  many  a  weary  day 
Since,  on  a  pleasant  eve  of  May, 
I  first  beheld  her ;  slight  and  fair, 
With  simple  violets  in  her  hair, 
And  a  pale  brow  of  thought  beneath, 
That  never  wore  a  prouder  wreath  ; 
And  roses  hanging  on  her  arm, 

Fresh  gathered  from  the  mountain  side ; 
And  wherefore,  by  her  mien  and  form 

She  is  not  mother,  wife,  nor  bride  ? 
Surely  the  hopes  of  childish  years 

Still  freshly  on  her  girlhood  rise  j 
But  no,  her  cheek  is  wet  with  tears — 

What  do  they  in  those  heavenly  eyes  ? 
The  mournful  truth  they  well  belie ; 

The  roses,  and  the  child-like  form, 
I  know  thee,  by  that  look  and  sigh, 

A  pale,  sweet  blossom  of  the  storm. 
And  see !  she  pauses  now,  and  stands 

Where  sup  save  her.-  hae  scarcely  trod, 


44  POEMS  BY  ALICE   CAREY. 

And  softly,  with  her  milk-white  hands, 
Lays  down  her  blossoms  in  the  sod. 

There  is  no  marble  slab  to  tell 
Who  lies  so  peacefully  asleep  ; 

'Tis  written  on  the  heart  as  well, 
Of  her  who  lingers  there  to  weep. 

One  evening  in  the  accustomed  vale 

I  missed  the  blossoms  from  the  turf, 
For  Morna's  lovely  brow  was  pale, 

And  cold  as  ocean's  beaten  surf. 
That  night  I  learned,  beside  her  bier, 

The  story  of  her  grief  in  part. — 
For  much,  that  mortal  might  not  hear, 

Lay  hidden  in  her  broken  heart. 
She  was  the  child  of  poverty, 

And  knew  from  birth  its  friendless  ills ; 
But  never  blossom  fair  as  she 

Grew  up  among  her  native  hills. 
Sweet  child  !  she  early  learned  to  sigh ; 

The  roses  on  her  cheek  grew  pale ; 
It  matters  not  to  tell  the  why — 

Who  is  there  will  not  guess  the  talc  ? 
He  was  the  haughty  child  of  pride — 

The  angel  of  delusive  dreams ; 
And  therefore  was  she  not  a  bride 

Who  slumbers  by  her  native  streams. 
The  weeds  of  desolate  years,  o'erspread 

The  pathway  where  so  oft  she  trod ; 
No  mourner  lingers  o'er  her  bed, 

Or  bears  fresh  blossoms  to  the  sod. 


ALDA.  45 


ALDA. 

You  would  have  loved  her,  had  you  seen ; 
The  beauty  of  her  life  was  prayer ; 
The  sweet  sky  never  wet  with  showers 
A  bed  of  yellow  primrose  flowers 
As  sunny  as  the  lovely  sheen 
Of  her  loose  hair. 

O'er  the  low  casement  her  soft  hands 
Twined  tenderly  the  creeping  vines  ; 
Out  in  the  woodland's  shady  glooms 
Loved  she  to  gather  summer  blooms, 
And  where,  from  yonder  valley  lands, 
The  river  shines. 

The  rain  was  falling  when  she  died, 
The  sky  was  dismal  with  its  gloom, 
And  autumn's  melancholy  blight 
Shook  down  the  yellow  leaves  that  night, 
And  mournfully  the  low  winds  sighed 
About  her  tomb. 

At  midnight,  near  the  gray  old  towers 
That  lift  their  lordly  pride  so  high, 
Was  heard  the  dismal  raven's  croak, 
From  the  red  shadows  of  the  oak, 


46  POEMS   BY   ALICE   CAREY. 


And  with  her  pale  arms  full  of  flowers. 
The  dead  went  by. 

An  old  man  now,  with  thin  white  hair, 
Oft  counts  his  beads  beneath  that  tree ; 
Sometimes  when  noontide's  glow  is  bright, 
And  sometimes  in  the  lonesome  night, 
He  breathes  the  dead  girl's  name  in  prayer 
On  bended  knee. 

A  shepherd  boy — so  runs  the  tale — 
Once,  as  he  pent  his  harmless  flocks, 
Crossed  the  sweet  maid,  her  lap  all  full 
Of  lilies  pied,  and  cowslips  dull, 
Weaving  up  fillets,  red  and  pale, 
For  her  long  locks. 

Sweetly  the  eve-star  lit  the  towers, 
When,  homeward  riding  from  the  chase, 
Down  from  his  coal-black  steed  there  leapt 
A  courtier  gay,  whose  dark  plumes  swept 
A  cloud  of  ringlets  bound  with  flowers, 
And  love-lit  face. 

Summer  is  gone — the  casement  low, 
With  dead  vines  darkened — winds  are  loud  ; 
Alda,  no  more  the  gray  old  towers 
Shut  from  thee  heaven's  sweet  border  flowers. 
Comb  back  the  locks  of  golden  glow, 
And  bring  the  shroud. 


THE   PIRATE.  47 


THE  PIRATE. 

Elzimina  !  maid  of  ocean, 

With  the  bosom  of  soft  light, 
Seest  thou,  settling  down  between  us, 

Stormy,  never-ending  night  ? 
Through  thy  curtains  of  pale  splendour, 

As  the  rosy  lamp-light  falls, 
Comes  there  not  a  memory,  tender, 

Of  my  dungeon's  stony  walls  ? 

Elzimina  !  maid  of  ocean, 

I  can  see  thee,  pale  and  meek, 
Wiping  with  thy  amber  tresses 

The  salt  waters  from  thy  cheek — 
Struggling  like  a  beam  of  brightness 

Towards  my  closing  prison-door, 
With  thy  arms  of  tender  whiteness 

Stretched  to  clasp  me  once,  once  more  ! 

Elzimina  !  maid  of  ocean, 

But  the  love  of  heaven's  sweet  shore 
Or  the  dread  of  hell  could  tempt  me 

That  dark  parting  to  live  o'er. 
Will  there  not  some  mystic  token 

Fill  thy  heart  with  bitter  pain 
When  the  sod  lies  cold  and  broken 

Where  thy  head  so  oft  hath  lain  ? 


48  POEMS   BY  ALICE   CAREY. 

Elzimina !  maid  of  ocean. 

Rising  from  the  hills  I  see, 
Thin  and  white,  the  mists  of  morning, 

That  shall  never  set  for  me ! 
Wrecks  of  vessels  lost  and  stranded 

Filled  thy  soft  heart  with  alarm, 
And  the  gray  wings,  beating  landward 

Warned  the  sailor  of  the  storm. 

When,  0  lovely  maid  of  ocean, 

From  the  rocking  deck  with  me, 
Saw  ye  last  the  fiery  sunset 

Paint  the  arteries  of  the  sea  ? 
When  the  red  moon's  reddest  shadow 

Like  a  mantle  clasped  thy  form, 
And  the  green  waves  like  a  meadow 

Rose  and  fell  before  the  storm. 

Elzimina  !  dream  of  beauty, 

'Neath  the  lips  that  dare  not  speak, 
Like  the  moonlight's  falling  crimson 

Burned  thy  lily  brow  and  cheek. 
Destiny  than  will  is  stronger, 

And  thy  gentle  eyes  must  weep, 
When  my  red  flag  lights  no  longer 

The  blue  bosom  of  the  deep  ! 

Elzimina  !  maid  of  ocean, 

Farewell  now  to  thee  and  hope, 

E'en  thy  white  hands  cannot  save  me 
From  the  coiling  gallows  rope. 


THE   ORPHAN'S   DREAM   OF  LOVE.  49 

From  the  scaffold,  newly  risen, 

Creeps  a  shadow,  dull  and  slow, 
O'er  the  damp  wall  of  my  prison — 

God  have  mercy  on  thy  wo  ! 


THE  ORPHAN'S  DREAM  OF  LOVE. 

Oh  !  how  my  very  heart  could  weep 

To  think  that  none  will  see  nor  know; 
Love's  fountain  may  be  still  when  deep, 

And  silent,  though  it  overflow. 
But  blossoms  may  unheeded  grow, 

"Whose  leaves  the  sweetest  balm  enfold, 
And  streams  be  noiseless  in  their  flow 

That  wander  over  sands  of  gold. 
0  love  !  thou  word  that  sums  all  bliss — 

Thou  that  no  language  ever  told — 
Best  gift  of  brighter  worlds  to  this, — 

They  err,  and  oh  !  their  hearts  are  cold, 
Who  hope  to  speak  thee : — such  would  seem 

A  thing  too  little  worth  to  prize, 
And  mine  is  an  ideal  dream 

The  world  can  never  realize  ! 
They  find,  whose  spirits  blend  with  mine, 

Thy  best  interpreter  a  sigh ; 
Bring  their  wreath  offering  to  the  shrine, 

And  lay  their  hearts  down  silently. 


50  POEMS    BY   ALICE    CAREY. 

There  comes  at  times,  on  viewless  wings, 

And  nestles  in  my  heart,  a  bird — 
Of  Heaven,  I  think — for  oh !  it  sings 

The  sweetest  songs  I  ever  heard. 
"When  first  it  came,  'twas  long  ago, 

For  childhood's  years  were  scarcely  by, 
Summer  and  evening  time,  I  know, 

For  stars  were  floating  in  the  sky. 
With  sunbeams  on  the  hills  at  play, 

And  gathering  moss  and  braiding  flowers, 
I  had  been  out  the  long,  long  day 

Till  twilight  came  with  dewy  hours ; 
And  threading  carelessly  along 

The  pathway,  through  the  starlit  glen, 
T  heard  this  sudden  flow  of  song, 

Which  I  had  never  heard  till  then. 
I  recked  not  of  the  time  I  stayed 

Enraptured,  so  the  melting  lay 
With  sweetness  filled  the  thickening  shade ; 

But  when  at  length  I  turned  away 
The  stars  had  streaked  with  silver  beams 

The  dusky  mantle  midnight  wore, 
And  I  was  dreaming  such  sweet  dreams 

As  I  had  never  dreamed  before  ! 
I  was  an  orphan — childhood's  years 

Had  passed  in  heaviness  of  heart  \ 
No  second  self  had  soothed  my  tears, 

Or  in  my  gladness  bore  a  part. 
But  then — perchance  the  thought  was  weak, 

Though  vainly  by  the  lips  supprest, 


THE  ORPHAN'S  DREAM  OF  LOVE.        51 

For  aught  of  which  the  heart  can  speak 

Is  never  long  a  secret  guest — 
I  thought  that  there  might  jet  be  won 

What  in  the  world  is  daily  found, 
"  Something  to  love,  to  lean  upon, 

To  clasp  affection's  tendrils  round." 
0,  if  love's  dreams  be  all  so  sweet 

As  those  which  then  to  me  were  given, 
Two  kindred  spirits,  when  they  meet, 

Must  surely  taste  the  bliss  of  heaven  ! 
It  may  be,  why  I  scarcely  know, 

But  so  to  me  it  never  seemed, 
It  may  be  fancy  made  it  so, 

But  as  I  wandered  on,  I  dreamed 
That  every  thing  I  looked  upon 

Was  full  of  loveliness  and  light ; 
The  starry  wreath  that  night  had  on 

Before  had  never  shone  so  bright. 
And  with  such  blessings  in  his  path, 

I  marvelled  man  should  ever  sin — 
Oh  !  earth  a  crowning  radiance  hath 

When  all  is  light  and  peace  within  ! 
But  since  that  vision  of  the  glen 

Long  weary  years  have  o'er  me  flown, 
And  left  me  what  they  found  me  then, 

Within  the  wide,  wide  world  alone. 


52  POEMS    BY   ALICE    CAREY. 


THE  BLUE  SCARF. 

The  soldier  of  an  elder  clime — 

His  bosom  seamed  with  scars — 
Has  oft  beguiled  my  wanderings 

With  legends  of  the  wars. 
Once,  as  we  slacked  our  bridle-reins 

To  gain  a  rising  hill, 
He  told  a  tale  of  other  times 

That  I  remember  still. 

Sunset  was  slanting  rosily, 

And  every  cloud  on  high 
Was  like  a  floating  pyramid 

Of  blossoms  in  the  sky. 
"  There's  something,"  said  the  aged  sire, 

"  In  every  thing  I  see 
That  brings  again  the  lights  and  shades 

Of  other  days  to  me  : 

"  For  one,  of  all  my  brethren 

The  bravest  in  the  fight, 
Stood  with  me  in  the  crimson  haze 

Of  just  so  sweet  a  night. 
We  heard,  against  the  shelving  rocks, 

The  dashing  of  the  seas, 
And  saw  the  summer  sun  go  down 

From  just  such  hills  as  these. 


THE   BLUE   SCARF.  53 

u  There  never  was  a  stronger  arm 

In  any  field  of  war, 
Nor  heart  that  beat  more  fearlessly 

Beneath  a  knight's  broad  star. 
For  ever  in  the  hottest  fight 

We  saw  his  scarf  of  blue  : 
His  eye  repelled  the  curious — 

His  name  we  never  knew. 

"  He  never  joined  in  revelry, 

And  never  wept  the  slain, 
And  never  either  smiled  or  sighed 

For  any  loss  or  gain  : 
For  when  the  wings  of  victory 

"Were  shining  o'er  our  host, 
I've  seen  him  in  his  tent  as  sad 

As  if  the  day  were  lost. 

u  Once  grappling  with  an  enemy 

Whose  fingers,  dropping  blood, 
Left  on  his  flaunting  scarf  their  print — 

I  slew  him  where  he  stood. 
For  this  he  seemed  to  love  me  more 

Than  aught  of  living  breath, 
And  at  the  peril  of  his  soul 

Thrice  rescued  me  from  death. 

"  And  when  all  hacked  with  gaping  wounds 
That  left  me  many  a  scar, 
The  long  and  weary  watch  was  his 
Of  the  blue  scarf  and  star. 

5* 


54  POEMS    BY   ALICE   CAREY. 

And  when  sweet  voices  called  me  back 
From  warfare's  stern  array, 

He  girt  my  heavy  armour  on 
And  shared  my  homeward  way. 

"  The  old  ancestral  hills,  at  last, 

That  overhung  the  sea, 
Were  reached,  and  eve  put  on  a  smile 

As  if  to  welcome  me. 
Then  said  the  knight,  most  mournfully, 

1  Our  path  is  one  no  more ; 
Thine  to  yon  ancient  castle  leads, 

And  mine  is  by  the  shore/ 

u  When  at  the  morning  hour  I  saw 

The  heavy  shades  of  night 
Break  sullenly  and  roll  away 

Before  the  welcome  light, 
Without  a  hand  upon  his  rein, 

As  there  was  wont  to  be, 
His  steed,  with  all  his  housings  on, 

Stood  champing  by  the  sea. 

"And  there,  all  wet  and  tangled,  lay 

The  bright  blue  scarf  he  wore, 
Among  the  sea-weed  and  the  sand, 

Washed  but  upon  the  shore. 
0  there  were  dark  imaginings — 

They  may  have  been  untrue — 
For  blent  with  that  insignia 

Was  all  we  ever  knew." 


the  stranger's  EriTArn.  55 


THE  STRANGER'S  EPITAPH. 

'Tis  but  a  sad  and  simple  line, 

Portraying  well  the  sleeper's  doom; 
I  pray  it  never  may  be  thine — 

Stoop  down  and  read  it  on  her  tomb. 
She  gave  it  me  the  night  she  died ; 

I  never  sought  to  know  the  rest, 
Believing  that  her  maiden  pride 

Was  fain  to  lock  it  in  her  breast. 

11  She  perished  of  a  broken  heart" — 
In  truth  a  sad  and  simple  line ; 
If  this  her  story  doth  impart, 
I  pray  it  never  may  be  mine  ! 

The  time  I  never  shall  forget, 

When,  with  her  dark  eyes  full  of  tears, 
She  told  me  that  the  seal  was  set 

Upon  the  limit  of  her  years  : 
And  even  ere  she  ceased  to  speak 

What  secretly  before  I  knew, 
The  hectic  deepening  on  her  cheek 

Attested  that  the  words  were  true. 
It  was  not  that  she  feared  to  lie 

On  the  cold  pillow  of  the  tomb; 
But  sometimes,  though  we  scarce  know  why, 

The  heart  is  full,  and  tears  will  come. 


56  POEMS   BY   ALICE   CAREY. 

Whatever  griefs  were  hers  to  bear, 

They  surely  had  no  taint  of  sin; 
A  temple  outwardly  so  fair 

Could  only  have  been  pure  within : 
And  sometimes  when  the  fountain  stirred 

Too  palpably  within  her  breast, 
A  sigh,  a  tear,  a  broken  word, 

Have  left  her  secret  more  than  guessed. 
As  from  this  vale  we  watched  the  stir 

Of  the  light  billows  of  the  sea, 
Both  sadly  musing — I  of  her, 

And  she  of  any  thing  but  me — 
She  warbled  something  in  a  tone 

As  light  and  joyous  as  a  bird's, 
(It  never  sounded  like  her  own 

Unless  the  heart  were  in  the  words,) 
Something  of  summer  fruit  and  flowers, 

Of  waving  meadows  and  ripe  grain — 
Of  home  and  hearth,  and  wedded  hours, 

Then  pausing  suddenly — "  ;Tis  vain, 
;Tis  more  than  vain,"  she  sadly  said, 

"  To  nurse  these  haunting  visions  now : 
The  nuptial  and  the  bridal  bed 

Were  never  meant  for  me  and  thou. 
O  thou  for  whom  I  could  have  died, 

I  am  as  nothing  unto  thee  ! 
Well,  hast  thou  not  another  bride, 

And  wherefore  should  I  care  to  be  V 
Then  placing  her  thin  hand  in  mine, 

Half  sad,  half  playfully,  she  said, 
"  I  fain  would  have  this  simple  line 

Upon  my  tomb  when  I  am  dead." 


TIIE   STRANGER'S    EPITAPH.  57 

Another  evening  came — the  breeze 
Was  lightly  sporting  with  the  wave, 

And  wild-birds  dropping  in  the  trees, 
"Whose  shadows  rested  on  her  grave. 

Three  summer-times  the  grass  had  grown 

Unshaven  on  her  lowly  bed, 
And  autumn's  yellow  leaves  been  strown 

As  often  o'er  the  slumbering  dead, 
When  on  the  evening  of  a  day 

As  beautiful  as  that  she  died, 
A  harper  and  a  maiden  gay, — 

Haply  she  may  have  been  his  bride, 
Haply  a  sister,  or  a  friend, 

I  know  not, — but  her  joyous  laugh 
She  checked,  and  here  I  saw  them  bend 

To  read  the  stranger's  epitaph. 
And  both  alike  were  young  and  fair, 

And  both  were  happy,  it  may  be, 
And  yet,  though  lightly  touched  of  care, 

Some  dark  thread  in  the  destiny 
Of  one  must  surely  have  had  place — 

Leaning  against  this  solemn  yew, 
And  muffling  from  the  light  his  face, 

He  wept  as  man  may  scarcely  do ; 
It  seemed  as  if  some  thought  of  pain 

By  the  sad  epitaph  was  stirred, 
For  oft  he  turned,  then  came  again, 

And  read  it  over  word  by  word. 
The  twilight's  rosy  hours  went  by, 

And  evening  deepened  into  gloom  ; 


68  POEMS   BY  ALICE   CAREY. 

The  last  stars  trembled  in  the  sky, 

And  still  I  saw  them  by  the  tomb. 
And  once  since  then  in  every  year, 

What  time  the  reaper  loves  to  see, 
I  note  the  selfsame  minstrel  here, 

And  marvel  what  his  grief  can  be. 
She  perished  of  a  broken  heart — 

We  can  but  guess  the  harper's  fate  ; 
But  surely  thus  to  die  apart 

Were  better  than  to  meet  too  late  ! 


THE  BETRAYAL. 

Tell  me,  when  the  stars  are  flashing 

In  the  northern  skies  so  blue, 
Or  when  morning's  tender  crimson 

Sweetly  burns  among  the  dew, 
Comes  there  no  reproachful  whisper 

From  the  mornings  and  the  eves, 
When  Hope's  white  buds  to  full  beauty 

Opened  like  the  faint  young  leaves  ? 

Ay,  thou  feel'st,  despite  thy  silence — 
That  betrayal  burns  thy  cheek ; 

Even  to  Love's  forgiving  bosom 

There  be  thoughts  thou  canst  not  speak ! 


THE   BETRAYAL. 

From  the  roses  of  that  bridal, 
The  dark  price  of  nameless  wo, 

Thou  niayst  not  unbind  the  curses 
Till  thy  last  of  suns  is  low  ! 

Lost  and  broken  is  the  music 

That  with  beauty  filled  the  night, — 
Melted  from  the  frozen  branches 

Are  the  frost-stars  glistening  bright,- 
"When  a  maid  with  trembling  bosom 

"Watched  a  ne'er  returning  steed, 
Cleaving  through  the  silver  shadows, 

On  and  on,  his  shaft-like  speed  ! 

Faint  against  the  ringing  pavement, 

Fainter  still  the  hoof-strokes  beat ; 
Scarcely  can  she  tell  the  shimmer 

Of  the  flint-sparks  from  the  sleet. 
Years  are  gone  :  the  village  hill-tops 

Redden  with  the  sunset's  glow ; 
With  a  lap  all  bright  with  blossoms 

Still  the  summers  come  and  go. 

With  a  cheek  grown  thinner,  whiter, 

And  the  dark  locks  put  away 
From  a  brow  of  patient  beauty, 

Dwells  the  maiden  of  my  lay ; 
Dwells  she  where  the  peaceful  shadow 

Of  her  native  hills  is  thrown, 
Binding  up  the  wounds  of  others 

All  the  better  for  her  own. 


60  POEMS  BY  ALICE   CAREY. 


ANNUARY. 

A  year  has  gone  down  silently 

To  the  dark  bosom  of  the  past, 
Since  I  beneath  this  very  tree 

Sat  hoping,  fearing,  dreaming  last. 
Its  crimson  glories,  like  a  flame, 

Are  trembling  to  the  wind's  light  touch — 
All  just  a  year  ago  the  same, 

And  I — oh !  I — am  changed  so  much  ! 

The  beauty  of  a  wildering  dream 

Hung  softly  round  declining  day ; 
A  star  of  all  too  sweet  a  beam 

In  eve's  flushed  bosom  trembling  lay. 
Changed  in  its  aspect,  yet  the  same, 

Still  climbs  that  star  from  sunset's  glow, 
But  its  embraces  of  pale  flame 

Clasp  not  the  weary  world  from  wo ! 

Another  year  shall  I  return, 

And  cross  this  solemn  chapel  floor, 
"While  round  me  memory's  shrine-lamps  burn, 

Or  shall  this  pilgrimage  be  o'er  ? 
One  that  I  loved,  grown  faint  with  strife, 

When  drooped  and  died  the  tenderer  bloom, 
Folded  the  white  tent  of  young  life 

For  the  pale  army  of  the  tomb. 


ANNUARY.  61 

The  dry  seeds  dropping  from  their  pods, 

The  hawthorn  apples  bright  as  dawn, 
And  the  pale  mullein's  starless  rods, 

Were  just  as  now,  a  year  agone. 
But  changed  is  every  thing  to  me, 

From  the  small  flower  to  sunset's  glow, 
Since  last  I  sat  beneath  this  tree, 

A  year,  a  little  year  ago. 

I  leaned  against  this  broken  bough, 

This  faded  turf  my  footstep  pressed ; 
But  glad  hopes,  that  are  not  there  now, 

Lay  softly  trembling  in  my  breast : 
Trembling,  for  through  the  golden  haze, 

Rose,  as  the  dead  leaves  drifted  by, 
As  from  the  Vala  of  old  days, 

The  mournful  voice  of  prophecy. 

Give  woman's  heart  one  triumph  hour, 

Even  on  the  borders  of  the  grave, 
And  thou  hast  given  her  strength  and  power 

The  saddest  ills  of  life  to  brave. 
Crush  that  far  hope  down,  thou  dost  bring 

To  the  poor  bird  the  tempest's  wrath, 
Without  the  petrel's  stormy  wing 

To  beat  the  darkness  from  its  path. 

Once  knowing  mortal  hope  and  fear, 
Whate'er  in  heaven's  sweet  clime  thou  art, 

Bend,  pitying  mother,  softly  near, 

And  save,  ob  !  awe  mo  from  my  heart  ! 

G 


62  POEMS   BY  ALICE   CAREY. 

Hush,  hush,  pale-handed  Memory, 
My  knee  is  trembling  on  the  sod — 

An  heir  of  immortality, 
A  child  of  the  eternal  God. 


THE  CHILDREN. 

Come,  sit  down,  little  children, 

Beneath  these  green  old  trees, 
There's  such  a  world  of  sweetness 

In  the  kisses  of  the  breeze  : 
Now  push  away  the  tresses 

From  your  young  and  healthful  brows, 
And  listen  to  the  music 

Up  above  us  in  the  boughs. 

How  pleasant  is  the  stirring 

Where  the  leaves  are  thick  and  bright  \ 
And  the  wings  of  birds  are  floating, 

Like  the  golden  summer  light. 
The  fragrance  of  the  brier-rose 

Is  sweet  upon  the  air ; 
And  the  pinks  and  dark-leaved  violets 

Are  scattered  everywhere. 

The  lilies  hang  their  silver  cups 

Close  to  the  water's  edge, 
And  the  pebbles  are  veined  deeply 

As  the  berries  in  the  hedge. 


THE   CHILDREN.  63 

But  where  yon  winding  pathway 

Along  the  hill  is  trod, 
'Tis  the  mourner's  heavy  footstep 

That  has  worn  away  the  sod. 

The  smooth  white  stones,  like  spectres, 

Are  standing  in  the  shade, 
To  mark  the  narrow  chambers 

"Where  the  old  and  young  are  laid. 
There  hides  the  deadly  nightshade 

"Where  the  tall  and  bent  grass  waves ; 
And  willow's  tresses,  long  and  sad, 

Are  trailed  above  the  graves. 

Not  with  the  gentle  falling 

Of  the  early  summer  rain ; 
Not  with  the  pleasant  rushing 

Of  the  sickle  in  the  grain  ; 
Nor  when  the  crimson  mantle 

Of  the  morn  is  o'er  them  spread, 
Shall  the  pale  hands  be  unfolded 

From  the  bosoms  of  the  dead. 

But  there's  a  morn  approaching 

When  the  sleepers  shall  arise, 
And  go  up  and  be  with  angels 

In  the  ever-cloudless  skies. 
Oh,  earth  is  very  beautiful 

"With  sunshine  and  with  flowers ; 
But  there's  a  world,  my  little  friends, 

Of  purer  hearts  than  ours. 


64  POEMS   BY  ALICE   CAREY. 


TO   MARY. 

Oh,  will  affection's  tendrils  twine 

About  that  summer  time  for  aye, 
When  midway  'twixt  thy  home  and  mine 

The  quiet  village  churchyard  lay  ! 
With  stars  beginning  to  ascend, 

And  homeward  winglets  on  the  air, 
Dost  ■Jim  remember,  0  my  friend, 

II  q  f  often  we  have  parted  there  ? 

That  summer,  like  a  sunlit  sea, 

Reflected  neither  cloud  nor  frown, 
Yet  in  its  bright  wave  noiselessly 

Some  ventures  of  the  heart  went  down  ! 
Blest  be  the  one  that  still  outrides 

The  silent  but  tumultuous  strife 
Of  hopes  and  fears,  like  heaving  tides, 

That  beat  against  the  shore  of  life  ! 

The  flowers  run  wild  that  used  to  be 

So  softly  tended  by  thy  hand — 
Colours  of  beauty  struck  at  sea, 

And  drifted  backward  to  the  land  ! 
Breathing  of  havens  whence  we  sailed, 

Visions  of  lovelight  seen  and  fled, 
Swift  barks  of  gladness  met  and  hailed, 

Of  beacon  fires,  and  land  ahead  ! 


G3 


A  tumult  of  sweet  light  and  shade 

Is  trembling  softly  in  my  heart, — 
A  hush  upon  my  soul  is  laid — 

Our  paths  henceforth  must  lie  apart ! 
In  the  dim  chamber  where  I  sit, 

Fears,  hopes,  and  memories  rise  and  blend, 
Like  pale  mists  with  the  sunshine  lit — 

God's  blessing  on  thee,  my  lost  friend  ! 


THE  LOVER'S  VISION. 

The  mist  o'er  the  dark  woods 

Hangs  whiter  than  snow, 
And  the  dead  leaves  keep  surging 

And  moaning  below ! 
Who  treads  through  their  dim  aisles  ? 

Now  answer  me  fair  ! 
'Tis  not  the  bat's  flabby  wing 

Beating  the  air ! 

A  sweet  vision  rises, 

Though  dimly  defined, 
And  a  hand  on  my  forehead 

Lies  cold  as  the  wind  ! 
I  clasp  the  white  bosom, 

No  heart  beats  beneath  j 
On  the  lips,  pale  and  lovely, 

There  trembles  no  breath. 


66  POEMS   BY   ALICE   CAREY. 

The  red  moon  was  climbing 

The  rough  rocks  behind, 
And  the  dead  leaves  kept  moaning, 

As  now,  in  the  wind ; 
The  white  stars  were  shining 

Through  cloud-rifts  above, 
When  first  in  these  dim  woods 

I  told  her  my  love. 

Half  fond,  half  reproachful, 

She  gazed  in  my  face, 
And,  shrinking  from,  suffered 

My  fervid  embrace : 
And  speaking  not,  lingered 

With  love's  bashful  art, 
Till  the  light  of  her  dark  eyes 

Burned  down  to  my  heart ! 

Like  the  leaf  of  a  lily 

When  Autumn  breathes  chill, 
The  tiny  hand  trembled 

That  now  is  so  still; 
And  I  knew  the  sweet  passion, 

Her  lips  only  sighed, 
In  the  hush  of  her  chamber 

The  night  that  she  died  ! 

O'er  the  shroud  of  the  pale  one 

I  made  me  a  vow 
To  kiss  back  the  crimson 

Of  life  to  her  brow ; 


MELODY.  67 


If  she  from  the  still  grave 
Would  come,  as  she  hath, 

And  walk  at  the  midnight 
This  lone  forest  path. 

The  cloud-rifts  are  closing, 

The  white  stars  are  gone ; 
But  the  hushed  step  of  darkness 

Treads  solemnly  on. 
I  call  the  dead  maiden, 

But  win  no  reply — 
She  has  gone,  and  for  ever, — 

0  God !  I  could  die. 


MELODY. 

Where  white  in  the  jungles 

Lay  bones  of  the  dead, 
All  night  the  wild  lioness 

Howled  as  she  fed  : 
The  wind  hot  and  sultry, 

And  scarcely  awake, 
Through  the  dust  of  the  desert-sand 

Crept  like  a  snake. 

But  a  beacon  gleamed  redly 
The  blue  rocks  along, 


68  POEMS   BY   ALICE   CAREY. 

Where  a  golden-tressed  maiden 
Sat  singing  her  song  : 

With  her  passionate  warble 
The  white  sea-mist  stirred, 

And  a  boat  to  the  desert  shore 
Flew  like  a  bird. 

The  deep  burning  blushes 

That  cover  her  brow, 
In  a  lover's  embraces 

Are  all  hidden  now. 
Wild  rover  of  ocean, 

Proud  scorner  of  storms, 
Guard  fondly  the  treasure 

Thus  clasped  in  thine  arms. 

As  the  eyes  of  the  pilgrim, 

Wherever  he  be, 
Turn,  down-trodden  city 

Of  beauty,  to  thee  : 
Turn  thou,  in  life's  pauses 

Of  dimness  and  care, 
To  the  sweet  love  of  woman, 

That  all  things  will  dare  ! 


TO   LUCY.  6!) 


TO  LUCY. 

The  leaves  are  rustling  mournfully, 

The  yellow  leaves  and  sere ; 
For  Winter  with  his  naked  arms 

And  chilling  breath  is  here. 
The  rills  that  all  the  autumn-time 

Went  singing  to  the  sea, 
Are  waiting  in  their  icy  chains 

For  Spring  to  set  them  free. 
No  bird  is  heard  the  livelong  day 

Upon  its  mates  to  call, 
And  coldly  and  capriciously 

The  slanting  sunbeams  fall. 

There  is  a  shadow  on  my  heart 

I  cannot  fling  aside ; 
Sweet  sister  of  my  soul !  with  thee 

Hope's  brightest  roses  died. 
I'm  thinking  of  the  pleasant  hours 

That  vanished  long  ago, 
"When  summer  was  the  goldenest, 

And  all  things  caught  its  glow : 
I'm  thinking  where  the  violets 

In  fragrant  beauty  lay, 
Of  the  buttercups  and  primroses 

That  blossomed  in  our  way. 


POEMS   BY   ALICE   CAREY. 

I  see  the  willow,  and  the  spring 

O'ergrown  with  purple  sedge ; 
The  lilies  and  the  scarlet  pinks 

That  grew  along  the  hedge ; 
The  meadow,  where  the  elm-tree  threw 

Its  shadows  dark  and  wide, 
And  sister-flowers  in  beauty  grew 

And  perished  side  by  side  : 
O'er  the  accustomed  vale  and  hill 

Now  "Winter's  robe  is  spread; 
The  beetle  and  the  moth  are  still, 

And  all  the  flowers  are  dead. 

I  mourn  for  thee,  sweet  sister, 

When  the  wintry  hours  are  here ; 
But  when  the  days  grow  long  and  bright, 

And  skies  are  blue  and  clear — 
Oh,  when  the  summer's  banquet 

Among  the  flowers  is  spread, 
My  spirit  is  most  sorrowful 

That  thou  art  with  the  dead. 
We  laid  thee  in  thy  narrow  bed 

When  autumn  winds  were  high — 
Thy  life  had  taught  us  how  to  live, 

And  then  we  learned  to  die. 


AN    EVENING    TALE.  71 


AN  EVENING   TALE. 

Come,  thou  of  the  drooping  eyelid, 

And  cheek  that  is  meekly  pale, 
Give  over  thy  pensive  musing 

And  list  to  a  lonesome  tale ; 
For  hearts  that  are  torn  and  bleeding, 

Or  heavy  as  thine,  and  lone, 
May  find  in  another's  sorrow 

Forgetfulness  of  their  own. 
So  heap  on  the  blazing  fagots 

And  trim  the  lamp  anew, 
And  I'll  tell  you  a  mournful  story — 

I  would  that  it  were  not  true  ! 

The  bright  red  clouds  of  the  sunset 

On  the  tops  of  the  mountains  lay, 
And  many  and  goodly  ves 

Were  anchored  below  in  the  bay ; 
saw  the  walls  of  the  city, 

And  could  hear  its  vexing  din, 
As  our  mules,  with  their  nostrils  smoking, 

Drew  up  at  a  wayside  inn : 
The  hearth  was  ample  and  blazing, 

For  the  night  was  something  chill, 
But  my  heart,  though  I  knew  not  wherefore, 

Sank  down  with  a  sense  of  ill. 


72  POEMS   BY   ALICE   CAREY. 

That  night  I  stood  on  the  terrace 

O'erlooking  a  blossomy  vale, 
And  the  gray  old  walls  of  a  convent 

That  loomed  in  the  moonlight  pale — 
Till  the  lamp  of  the  sweet  Madonna 

Grew  faint  as  if  burning  low, 
And  the  midnight  bell  in  the  turret 

Swung  heavily  to  and  fro — 
When  just  as  its  last  sweet  music 

Came  back  from  the  echoing  hill, 
And  the  hymn  of  the  ghostly  friars 

In  the  fretted  aisle  grew  still — 

On  a  rude  bench,  hid  among  olives, 

I  noted  a  maiden  fair, 
Alone,  with  the  night  wind  playing 

In  the  locks  of  her  raven  hair. 
Thrice  came  the  sound  of  her  sighing, 

And  thrice  were  her  red  lips  pressed 
With  wild  and  passionate  fervour 

To  the  cross  that  hung  on  her  breast 
But  her  bearing  was  not  the  bearing 

That  to  saintly  soul  belongs, 
Albeit  she  chanted  the  fragments 

Of  holy  and  beautiful  songs. 

;Twas  the  half  hour  after  the  midnight, 
And,  so  like  that  it  might  be  now, 

The  full  moon  was  meekly  climbing 
Over  the  mountain's  brow — 


sailor's  song.  73 

When  the  step  of  the  singing  maiden 

In  the  corridor  lightly  trod, 
And  I  presently  saw  her  .kneeling 

In  prayer  to  the  mother  of  God ! 
On  the  leaves  of  her  golden  missal 

Darkly  her  loose  locks  lay, 
And  she  cried,  "Forgive  me,  sweet  Virgin. 

And  mother  of  Jesus,  I  pray  I" 

When  the  music  was  softly  melting 

From  the  eloquent  lips  of  morn, 
Within  the  walls  of  the  convent 

Those  beautiful  locks  were  shorn  : 
And  wherefore  the  veil  was  taken 

Was  never  revealed  by  time, 
But  Charity  sweetly  hopeth 

For  sorrow,  and  not  for  crime. 


SAILOR'S  SONG. 

Ha  !  the  bird  has  fled  my  arrow — 

Though  the  sunshine  of  its  plumes, 
Like  the  summer  dew,  is  dropping 

On  its  native  valley  blooms  : 
In  the  shadow  of  its  parting  wing 

Shall  I  sit  down  and  pine, 
That  it  pours  its  song  of  beauty 

On  another  lionrt  than  mine? 


74  POEMS   BY   ALICE   CAREY. 

From  thy  neck,  my  trusty  charger, 

I  will  strip  away  the  rein, 
But  to  crop  the  flowery  prairie 

May  it  never  bend  again  ! 
With  thy  hoof  of  flinty  silver, 

And  thy  blue  eye  shining  bright, 
Through  the  red  mists  of  the  morning 

Speed  like  a  beam  of  light. 

I'm  sick  of  the  dull  landsmen — 

'Tis  time,  my  lads,  that  we 
Were  crowding  on  the  canvas, 

And  standing  out  to  sea  ! 
Ever  making  from  the  headlands 

Where  the  wrecker's  beacons  ride, 
Red  and  deadly,  like  the  shadow 

Of  the  lion's  brinded  hide ; 

And  hugging  close  the  islands, 

That  are  belted  with  the  blue, 
Where  a  thousand  birds  are  singing 

In  the  dells  of  light  and  dew ; 
Time  unto  our  songs  the  billows 

With  their  dimpled  hands  shall  keep, 
As  we're  ploughing  the  white  furrows 

In  the  bosom  of  the  deep  ! 

In  watching  the  light  flashing 
Like  live  sparks  from  our  prow, 

With  but  the  bitter  kisses 
Of  the  cold  surf  on  my  brow, 


THE   OLD   HOMESTEAD.  75 

May  my  voyage  at  last  be  ended, 

And  my  sleep  be  in  the  tide, 
With  the  sea-waves  clasped  around  me, 

Like  the  white  arms  of  a  bride. 


THE   OLD  HOMESTEAD. 

When  first  the  skies  grow  warm  and  bright 

And  fill  with  light  the  hours, 
And,  in  her  pale,  faint  robes,  the  Spring 

Is  calling  up  the  flowers, — 
When  children,  with  unslippered  feet, 

Go  forth  with  hearts  of  glee, 
To  the  straight  and  even  furrows 

Where  the  yellow  corn  must  be, — 
What  a  beautiful  embodiment 

Of  ease,  devoid  of  pride, 
Is  the  good  old-fashioned  homestead, 

With  doors  still  open  wide  ! 

But  when  the  happiest  time  is  come 

That  to  the  year  belongs, 
Of  uplands  bright  with  harvest  gold, 

And  meadows  full  of  songs, — 
When  fields  of  yet  unripened  corn 

And  daily  garnering  stores 
Remind  the  thrifty  husbandman 

Of  ampler  threshing-floors, — 


76  POEMS   BY  ALICE   CAREY. 

How  pleasant,  from  the  din  and  dust 

Of  the  thoroughfare  aloof, 
Seems  the  old-fashioned  homestead, 

With  steep  and  mossy  roof ! 

When  home  the  woodsman  plots,  with  axe 

Upon  his  shoulder  swung, 
And  in  the  knotted  apple-tree 

Are  scythe  and  sickle  hung, — 
When  light  the  swallows  twitter 

'Neath  the  rafters  of  the  shed, 
And  the  table  on  the  ivied  porch 

With  decent  care  is  spread, — 
The  hearts  are  lighter  and  freer 

Than  beat  in  the  populous  town, 
In  the  old-fashioned  homestead, 

With  gables  sharp  and  brown  ! 

When  the  flowers  of  Summer  perish 

In  the  cold  and  bitter  rain, 
And  the  little  birds  with  weary  wings 

Have  gone  across  the  main, — 
When  curls  the  blue  smoke  upward 

Toward  the  bluer  sky, 
And  cold  along  the  naked  hills 

And  white  the  snow-drifts  lie, — 
In  legends  of  love  and  glory 

They  forget  the  cloud  and  storm, 
In  the  old-fashioned  homestead, 

With  hearth-stone  ample  and  warm  ! 


LIGHTS   OF  GENIUS.  77 


LIGHTS  OF   GENIUS. 

Upheaving  pillars,  on  whose  tops 

The  white  stars  rest  like  capitals, 
"Whence  every  living  spark  that  drops 

Kindles  and  blazes  as  it  falls  ! 
And  if  the  arch-fiend  rise  to  pluck, 

Or  stoop  to  crush  their  beauty  down, 
A  thousand  other  sparks  are  struck, 

That  Glory  settles  in  her  crown. 
The  huge  ship,  with  its  brassy  share, 

Ploughs  the  blue  sea  to  speed  their  course, 
And  veins  of  iron  cleave  the  air 

To  waft  them  from  their  burning  source  ! 
All,  from  the  insect's  tiny  wings, 

And  the  small  drop  of  morning  dew, 
To  the  wide  universe  of  things, 

The  light  is  shining,  burning  through. 
Too.  deep  for  our  poor  thoughts  to  gauge 

Lie  their  clear  sources,  bright  as  truth, 
Whence  flows  upon  the  locks  of  age 

The  beauty  of  eternal  youth. 
Think,  oh,  my  faltering  brother !  think, 

If  thou  wilt  try,  if  thou  hast  tried, 
By  all  the  lights  thou  hast,  to  sink 

The  shaft  of  an  immortal  tide ! 


78  POEMS   BY   ALICE   CAItEY. 


I   KNOW   THOU   ART  FREE. 

I  know  thou  art  free  from  earth's  sordid  control, 

In  the  beautiful  mansions  above — 
That  sorrow  can  never  be  flung  o'er  the  soul 

That  rests  in  the  bosom  of  Love. 
I  know  that  the  wing  of  thy  spirit  is  furled 

By  the  palm-shaded  fountains  of  bliss, 
That  erst  in  its  strife  for  the  bright  upper  world 

Was  bruised  and  enfeebled  in  this. 

For  oft  as  I  gaze  on  thy  dwelling  of  light, 

When  the  glory  of  stars  is  on  high, 
I  hear  in  my  visions,  as  glowingly  bright, 

The  flutter  of  wings  in  the  sky : 
And  in  the  sweet  islands  that  slumber  afar 

From  the  tomb  and  the  desert  and  sea, 
With  glory  around  thee  that  nothing  can  mar, 

My  soul  hath  revealings  of  thee. 

But  still  like  a  captive  confined  from  the  day, 

My  heart  doth  in  bitterness  pine ; 
And  sigh  for  release  from  its  prison  of  clay, 

And  a  blissful  reunion  with  thine : 
Save  when  I  am  come  to  the  heavenly  shrine 

To  pour  supplication  and  prayer, 
For  then  doth  my  spirit  seem  nearer  to  thine, 

And  lay  down  its  mantle  of  care. 


A   GOOD    MAN.  79 


A  GOOD  MAN. 

A  man  he  was,  of  thin  and  silver  hairs, 
"Whose  pious  hands  and  never-wearied  feet 

Kept  from  a  sacred  field  the  enemy's  tares, 

And  nursed  to  vigorous  growth  the  precious  wheat. 

Though  he  had  loved  and  kept  the  rule  of  right, 
After  the  strictest  manner,  from  his  youth, 

Often  his  prayer  went  up  for  larger  light, 
And  deeper,  holier  reverence  for  truth. 

Hard  by  the  village  church  his  mansion  stcod, 
Modest  of  bound,  yet  hospitably  wide  ; 

His  highest  eloquence  was  doing  good, 
His  simple  meekness  the  rebuke  of  pride. 

Oh  !  vainly  cheerful  glowed  the  evening  fire, 

Amply  in  vain  the  housewife's  board  was  spread, 

That  night  when  homeward  came  the  toil-worn  sire 
And  told  his  children  the  good  man  was  dead. 

"Within  God's  holy  temple  there  was  wo — 

"Wo  that  the  Book  of  Life  might  scarce  assuage; 

The  tremulous  voice  was  dumb,  and  the  white  flow 
Of  reverend  locks  swept  not  the  sacred  page. 


80  POEMS   BY  ALICE   CAREY. 

Oft  had  that  man  of  God,  while  living,  said, 
Wherefore,  my  children,  do  you  vainly  weep  ? 

The  friend  you  mourn  so  sadly  is  not  dead, 
But  only  fallen  in  the  Lord  asleep  ! 

For  he  had  preached,  with  zeal  that  would  not  cease, 
Christ  and  the  resurrection,  not  in  vain ; 

For,  like  a  benediction  full  of  peace, 

Came  the  blest  memory  to  the  weeping  train. 

And  they  rose  up  with  souls  less  sadly  dim, 

Young  men,  and  maidens,  and  the  bowed  with  care, 

Feeling  that  death  had  only  been  to  him 
God's  hour  of  answer  to  a  life  of  prayer. 


HYMN   OF  THE   TRUE   MAN. 

Peace  to  the  True  Man's  ashes  !     Weep  for  those 
Whose  days  in  old  delusions  have  grown  dim ; 

Such  lives  as  his  are  triumphs,  and  their  close 
An  immortality.     Weep  not  for  him. 

As  feathers  wafted  from  the  eagle's  wings 

Lie  bright  among  the  rocks  they  cannot  warm, 

So  lie  the  flowery  lays  that  Genius  brings, 

In  the  cold  turf  that  wraps  his  honoured  form. 


HYMN    OF    TILE    TliUE    MAX.  81 

A  practical  rebuker  of  vain  strife, 

Bolder  in  deeds  than  words,  from  beardless  youth 
To  the  white  hairs  of  age,  he  made  his  life 

A  beautiful  consecration  to  the  Truth. 

Virtue,  neglected  long,  and  trampled  down, 
Grew  stronger  in  the  echo  of  his  name; 

And,  shrinking  self-condemned  beneath  his  frown, 
The  cheek  of  harlotry  grew  red  with  shame. 

Serene  with  conscious  peace,  he  strewed  his  way 
With  sweet  humanities,  the  growth  of  love; 

Shaping  to  right  his  actions,  day  by  day, 
Faithful  to  this  world  and  to  that  above. 

The  ghosts  of  blind  belief  and  hideous  crime, 
Of  spirit-broken  loves,  and  hopes  betrayed, 

That  flit  among  the  broken  walls  of  Time, 
Are  by  the  True  Man's  exorcisms  laid. 

Blest  is  his  life  who  to  himself  is  true, 

And  blest  his  death — for  memory,  when  he  dies, 

Comes,  with  a  lover's  eloquence,  to  renew 
Our  faith  in  manhood's  upward  tendencies. 

Weep  for  the  self-abased,  and  for  the  slave, 

And  for  God's  children  darkened  with  the  smoke 

Of  the  red  altar — not  for  him  whose  grave 
Is  greener  than  the  misletoe  of  the  oak. 


82  POEMS    BY   ALICE   CAREY. 


HYMN  OF   THE   STUDENT   OF  NATURE. 


"  I  have  learned  to  lean  on  my  own  soul,  and  not  to  look  elsewhere  for  the 
reeds  that  a  wind  can  break." — Bulwer. 


I  know  my  humble  lineage — that  my  way 
Has  led  among  life's  valleys,  and  docs  still ; 

But  destiny  is  as  the  potter's  clay, 

And  we  can  make  it  glorious  if  we  will ! 

Smiles  settled  on  the  lips  of  one  who  died 

In  the  quick  tortures  of  a  fiery  bed ; 
And  they  by  less  severe  ordeals  tried 

May  surely  to  an  equal  strength  be  wed. 

True  many  that  I  deemed  my  friends  are  gone, 
But,  Nature,  thou  at  least  wilt  still  be  kind ; 

For  from  thy  naked  bosom  I  have  drawn 
The  sweetest  draughts  I  ever  hope  to  find. 

Out  in  the  tents  of  summer  I  have  heard 
Music  that  made  me  happy,  not  of  art, 

But  the  wild  song  of  some  sweet-throated  bird, 
That  flowed,  as  all  things  best  do,  from  the  heart. 

I  will  not  chase  the  phantoms  that  are  fled, 
Nor  like  a  lovesick  dreamer  pray  to  die, 


HYMN   OF   THE   STUDENT   OF   NATURE.  83 

Though  I  may  have  no  shelter  for  my  head 
But  the  blue  curtain  of  G-od's  equal  sky. 

But  in  some  flowery  nook,  away  from  care, 
Fanning  my  heart  down'to  a  pulse  more  even, 

I'll  build  me  beautiful  palaces  of  air 

For  my  soul's  children,  beings  sweet  as  heaven. 

And  these  shall  be  my  friends,  for  friends  like  these 
Can  trouble  with  no  yearning  to  depart, 

And  the  cold  kisses  of  the  mountain  breeze 
Wake  not  the  tale  of  Indus  in  the  heart ! 


LIFE'S  ANGELS. 

0  still,  and  dumb,  and  silent  Earth, 
Unlock  thy  dim  and  pulseless  arms; 

Wandering  and  weary  from  her  birth, 

Thy  child  seeks  refuge  from  life's  storms ! 

Still  from  my  heart  a  shadow  lifts, 

And  through  my  soul  a  lost  voice  thrills, 

As  the  soft  starlight's  golden  drifts 
Sweep  nightly  o'er  the  western  hills. 

Life  has  its  angels,  though  unkept 

The  lovelight  which  their  beauty  brings, 

And  though  the  blue  heavens  are  not  swept 
With  the  white  radiance  of  thoir  winjrs. 


84  POEMS   BY  ALICE   CAREY. 

But  a  dark  shadow — not  the  grave's — 
Has  clasped  the  one  I  loved  from  me, 

And  winds  have  built  their  walls  of  wave 
Between  us  in  the  eternal  sea. 

I  dare  not  drink  the  mantling  cup, 

Nor  light  the  shrine  in  Love's  sweet  name, 

Lest  from  the  dark  be  lifted  up 

Pale  hands  to  smother  down  the  flame. 

The  music  on  the  lip  of  morn, 

Wings  glancing  on  the  summer  air, 

Love's  rose-crown — all  things  earthly  born — 
Are  links  that  bind  me  to  despair. 

Whene'er  the  fires  of  sunset's  glow 

Stream  bright  across  some  silver  cloud, 

I  think  about  the  wavy  flow 

Of  long  loose  tresses  o'er  the  shroud. 

No  more  I  tremble  with  sweet  awe, 
For  all  life's  shining  waves  grow  dim, 

When  there  one  burning  star  I  saw 
Quench  its  bright  axle  to  the  rim. 

Borne  down  and  weary  with  life's  storms, 
0  Earth,  receive  me  to  thy  breast ; 

Unlock  thy  dim  and  pulseless  arms, 
And  cool  this  burning  heart  to  rest. 


THE  PILGRIM.  85 


THE  PILGRIM. 

The  child  of  an  Eternal  Sire  ! 

Great  waves  of  burning  desert  sand 
And  mountains  with  their  tongues  of  fire 

Are  but  as  dew-drops  in  his  hand. 

O'ershadowed  by  the  gallows  tree, 
And  moaning  like  the  hunted  Jew, 

Our  guilt  is  like  a  mighty  sea, 

"With  God's  sweet  mercy  shining  through  ! 

How  deep  that  mercy,  and  how  wide  ! 

The  child  of  lost  and  recreant  years 
Can  in  a  Father's  bosom  hide 

His  sins,  his  sorrows,  and  his  tears  ! 

Once,  when  the  noontide's  fervid  rays, 
Like  sickles  in  the  dim  grass  lay, 

Bent  forward  on  his  staff  to  gaze 
For  the  loved  city  far  away, — 

I  crossed  a  pilgrim,  and  I  knew, 

More  by  an  instinct  of  the  soul 
Than  by  his  white  hairs,  thin  and  few, 

That  ho  might  never  reach  the  goal. 


86  POEMS   BY   ALICE   CAREY. 

And  when  I  saw  him  onward  start, 

With  fainter  hope,  and  step  more  slow, 

God  knoweth  that  within  my  heart 

The  measure  could  have  gauged  his  wo ! 

For  I  have  seen  all  sad  above, 
And  all  below  in  bitterest-  strife, 

"When  e'en  the  planet  of  my  love 
Sat  darkly  in  my  house  of  life. 

And  sometimes,  my  poor  bleeding  feet 
Far  from  the  cooling  fountain  wave, 

I've  thought  no  shadow  half  so  sweet 
As  that  which  darkened  o'er  the  grave  ! 

The  temples,  palaces,  and  towers 
Of  the  old  time,  I  may  not  see, 

Nor  'neath  my  reverent  tread,  thy  flowers 
Bend  meekly  down,  Gethsemane  ! 

By  Jordan's  wave  I  may  not  stand, 
Nor  climb  the  hills  of  Galilee, 

Nor  break  with  my  poor  sinful  hand 
The  crosier  of  apostasy  ! 

Nor  pitch  my  tent  'neath  Salem's  sky, 
As  faith's  impassioned  fervour  bids, 

Nor  hear  the  wild  bird's  startled  cry 
From  Egypt's  awful  pyramids. 

I  have  not  stood,  and  may  not  stand 

"Where  Hermon's  dews  the  blossoms  feed, 


THE   PILGRIM.  87 

Nor  where  the  flint-sparks  light  the  sand 
Beneath  the  Arab  lancer's  steed. 

Wo  for  the  dark  thread  in  my  lot, 

That  still  hath  kept  my  feet  away 
From  pressing  toward  the  hallowed  spot 

Where  Mary  and  the  young  child  lay. 

But  oh  !  I  thank  the  gracious  Power, 
That  I,  in  nature's  ponderous  tome, 

Can  find  a  splendour  in  the  flower, 
A  glory  in  the  stars  of  home. 

And  haply  o'er  those  planets  bright, 
That  in  the  blue  vault  nightly  spring, 

Are  farther  worlds  of  larger  light, 
Each  counted  as  a  little  thing 

By  Him,  who  day's  wide  splendour  planned, 

And  gave,  to  glorify  the  night, 
Those  visible  jewels  of  his  hand — 

Saying  at  first,  Let  there  be  light ! 

But  with  great  systems  for  his  care, 

Beyond  the  farthest  star  we  see, 
He  bends  to  hear  the  pleading  prayer 

Of  every  sinful  child  like  me. 

And  in  the  ashes  of  the  fears 

That  darken  o'er  the  closing  strife, 
Faith,  with  her  soft  eyes  full  of  tears, 

Strews  blossoms  from  the  Tree  of  Life. 


88  POEMS   BY   ALICE   CAREY. 


PITIED   LOVE.* 

Faintly  the  sunset's  sinking  fires 

Kedden  the  waters,  and  above 
Tip  the  gray  oaken  boughs  like  spires, 

While,  struggling  like  despair  with  love, 

Are  rustling  shadows  dropt  with  gold, 
Deepening  and  nearing  with  the  night, 

Until  at  length  they  close,  and  fold 
In  their  embrace  the  fainting  light. 

Up  from  the  river  blue  mists  curl, 
The  dew  shines  in  the  vale  below, 

And  overhead,  like  beads  of  pearl, 
The  white  buds  of  the  mistletoe. 

Lo  !  while  the  shade  and  light  ingrain, 

A  dryad  dweller  of  the  tree, 
Like  the  hushed  murmur  of  soft  pain, 

Is  pouring  its  sweet  note  for  thee. 

Lone  one,  beneath  whose  drooping  head 
The  red  leaves  of  the  autumn  lie, — 


*  The  author  acknowledges  her  indebtedness  to  Coleridge  for  one  or  two 
passages  in  this  poem. 


PITIED  LOVE. 

The  winds  have  stooped  to  make  that  bed, 
0  lonesome  watcher  of  the  sky  ! 

Lifting  his  head  a  little  up 

From  the  poor  pillow  where  it  lay, 

And  pushing  from  his  forehead  pale 
The  long  damp  tresses  all  away : 

He  told  me,  with  the  eager  haste 
Of  one  who  dare  not  trust  his  words, 

He  knew  a  mortal  with  a  voice 
As  low  and  lovely  as  that  bird's. 

But  that  he  saw  once  in  a  dell 
Separate  from  that  a  weary  space, 

A  pale,  meek  lily,  that  as  well 

Might  woo  that  old  oak's  green  embrace, 

As  for  his  heart  to  hope  that  she, 

Whose  palace  chamber  ne'er  grew  dim, 

"Would  leave  the  loves  of  royalty 

To  wander  through  the  world  with  him. 

Once,  leaping  in  a  murderous  cave 
He  saved  her  from  an  outlaw  band, 

And  with  such  tenderness  she  chid 
"When  twice  he  kissed  her  lily  hand. 

With  the  sweet  burden  as  he  flew, 
He  dared  to  gaze  upon  her  face, 

And  she  forgave  him,  though  he  drew 
Closer  and  closer  the  embrace. 


90  POEMS   BY  ALICE   CAREY. 

Why  shook  the  fair  form  with  alarm  ? 

The  proud  Earl  Say  to  meet  her  came, 
And  shrinking  from  that  boyish  arm, 

Her  cheek  grew  darkly  red  with  shame ! 

And  he,  scarce  knowing  what  he  did, 
But  feeling  that  his  heart  was  broke, 

Fled  from  her  pitying  glance,  and  hid 
In  the  cold  shadows  of  that  oak ; 

Where,  as  he  said,  she  came  at  night 
And  clasped  him  from  the  bitter  air, 

With  her  soft  arms  of  tender  white, 
And  the  dark  beauty  of  her  hair. 

But  when  the  morning  lit  the  spray, 
And  hung  its  soft  wreaths  o'er  his  head, 

The  lovely  lady  passed  away 

Through  mist  of  glory,  pale  and  red. 

So  bitter  grew  his  heaving  sighs, 

So  mournful  dark  the  glance  he  raised, 

I  looked  upon  him  earnestly, 

And  saw  the  gentle  boy  was  crazed  ! 

How  fair  he  was  !  it  made  me  sad, 
And  soft  as  sad  my  bosom  grew, 

To  think  no  earthly  hand  could  build 
That  beautiful  ruin  up  anew. 

But  pointing  where  the  full  moon's  light 
Lay  redly  on  the  village  hills, 


ALONE   BY   THE   TOMB.  91 

I  told  him  that  my  hearth  that  night 
"Was  brighter : — How  my  bosom  thrills, 

Remembering  how  he  hid  his  face 
In  earth's  cold  bosom,  cold  and  bare, 

And  told  me  of  the  warm  embrace 
That  meekly,  sweetly  kept  him  there. 

Closer  the  dismal  raven  croaks — 

Flutters  the  wild-bird  nigh  and  nighcr — 

A  colder  shadow  than  the  oak's 

Has  stilled  that  bosom's  pulse  of  fire. 


ALONE   BY  THE   TOMB. 

"Where  solemn  and  heavy  the  shadow 
Of  the  old  gray  church  is  spread, 

And  the  grass  is  crushed  down  and  faded, 
I  muse  on  the  early  dead. 

Not  the  voiceless  peace  of  my  chamber, 
Nor  the  song,  nor  the  hearth  of  light, 

Nor  the  vistas  of  golden  visions, 
Could  quiet  my  soul  to-night. 

I  would  think  of  the  meekness  and  beauty 
Of  gentle  and  noiseless  lives, 


92  TOEMS   BY   ALICE   CAREY. 

And  not  of  the  thwarted  endeavour 
Of  the  spirit  that  hopes  and  strives. 

Of  the  sweetness  of  household  duty ; 

Of  the  loves  that  never  depart ; 
And  not  of  the  plummet  of  agony, 

Sounding  the  depths  of  the  heart. 

The  starlight  is  dimly  burning 

In  the  leaves,  but  the  birds  are  still, 

And  no  light  gleams  from  the  chambers, 
Narrow,  and  low,  and  chill. 

I  can  hear  the  dull  bat  flitting, 

And  the  wind  in  the  chancel  moan — 

0  how  can  my  feet  walk  firmly 
The  valley  of  shade  alone  ! 

Sole  friend  of  my  heart,  be  with  me 
In  the  time  of  the  parting  strife, 

And  read  me  the  simple  story 

Of  the  Cross,  from  the  Book  of  Life. 

7 Twill  strengthen  me  more  than  the  greenness 

Of  the  rosied  hills  above, 
To  die  on  that  pillow  of  beauty — 

The  bosom  of  faithful  love. 


TWO   VISIONS.  93 


TWO  VISIONS. 

I  saw  a  shadow  through  the  sunshine  pass, 

Bright  and  unsteady,  but  without  a  sound, 
As  a  sleek  serpent  might  divide  the  grass, 

Writhing  and  quivering  with  a  mortal  wound; 
So  came  the  thing,  or  shadow,  nigh  and  nigher — 

But  my  eyes,  weary  with  excess  of  pain, 
Could  tell  not  whether  scales  or  sparks  of  fire 

Glistened  and  glinted  on  its  tortuous  train. 

'Twas  gone,  and  where  it  vanished  from  my  view 

I  saw  a  red  and  horrible  mist  arise, 
And  as  it  drifted  thinly,  straining  through 

The  fixed  and  ghastly  shining  of  dead  eyes. 

And  there  were  worms  of  shifting  hues  that  lay 

Catching  the  radiance  of  the  sinking  sun, 
As  sick  to  dizzy  death  I  turned  away, 

Loosening  a  helm,  close  where  a  fountain  run 
There  was  a  woman  with  pale  wo  distressed , 

'Neath  her  long  tresses,  damp  with  evening's  breath, 
Clasping  a  youth  all  softly,  whose  torn  breast 

"Was  erimaon  with  the  bitter  blood  of  death. 

And  as  she  looked  upon  him,  her  sweet  eyes 

Grew  moist  with  tenderer  sorrow  than  might  suit 


9-1  POEMS   BY  ALICE   CAREY. 

The  severance  of  worn  and  common  ties ; 

But  though  her  frail  frame  shook,  her  lips  were  mute. 

He  died,  and  rude  men  covered  him  away 

From  her  embraces,  with  the  common  dust  j 
And  though  her  cheek  grew  whiter  than  the  spray 

Of  the  vexed  ocean,  she  forebore  to  trust 
Her  sorrow  to  the  consonance  of  words ; 

But,  weaving  up  his  name  with  her  sad  song — 
A  broken  warble  like  a  wounded  bird's — 

She  passed  unconsciously  the  worshipping  throng. 

But  of  her  sufferings  the  elaborate  tale 

Were  a  dark  story  that  I  cannot  write; 
Enough  that  in  the  thin  grass  of  a  vale 

Quiet  and  lonesome,  azure-leaved  and  white, 
The  violets  are  spreading  o'er  two  graves, 

One  newer  than  the  other.     When  the  fold 
Of  a  bright  banner  to  wild  music  waves, 

I  think  about  those  locks  of  paley  gold, 
Like  the  dissolving  beam  of  a  faint  star; 

And  of  the  dying  heart  they  clasped  away 
From  the  red  shadow  of  the  wing  of  war, 

So  strong  of  my  strange  vision  is  the  sway. 

There  was  a  murmur  through  the  shaken  plumes 

Of  the  green  forest,  and  along  the  sea, 
O'er  the  iced  mountains,  through  the  cavern  glooms, 

Touching  the  lost  heart  of  humanity. 
'Twas  like  the  voice  of  a  hair-girdled  John 

In  the  dim  wilderness  crying,  Prepare  the  way, 


TWO    VISIONS.  95 

That  the  blind  children  of  men  may  look  upon 
The  shilling  glories  of  the  risen  day. 

IIi<  cold  disseeting-knife  in  Nature's  breast, 

Unix-king  the  joints  and  laying  the  arteries  bare, 
Of  hidden  knowledge  limited  not  the  guest, 

But  with  their  pale  smile  in  his  silver  hair, 
He  cross-examined  the  stars,  resolved  the  plans 

Of  their  far  orbits,  difficult  and  vast ; 
And  in  the  charnel,  loosening  the  bands, 

Wrenched  the  dark  secrets  from  the  unanswering  past. 
And  when  that  soul  of  fire  its  aim  had  gained, 

Conning  to  wisdom  even  the  martyr's  blood, 
With  the  soft  links  of  love  mankind  were  chained 

Into  one  universal  brotherhood. 

In  the  sweet  pauses  of  the  heart  of  prayer 

The  air  was  full  of  music,  meek  as  mill, 
The  light  wind  drifting  back  the  golden  hair 

From  her  white  bosom,  sat  a  little  child ; 
And  the  wild  warble  of  the  morning  bird 

Was  hushed  in  its  melodious  throat,  to  trace 
The  windings  of  her  song,  while  all  who  heard 

Pined  for  the  beauty  of  her  soft  embrace. 

Down  to  the  stony  floor  of  the  blue  sea 

Sunk  the  dim  ghost  of  suffering  and  crime ) 

And  he  of  the  white  tresses  bent  the  knee 
In  reverent  worship  of  the  type  sublime. 


96  POEMS   BY   ALICE   CAREY. 


LOST  DILLIE. 


Don't  you  remember  the  old  apple-tree   * 

That  grew  in  the  edge  of  the  meadow; 
And  the  maiden  whose  thitherward  straying  with  me 

Threw  over  the  sward  but  one  shadow  ? 
Was  it  the  blush  of  the  apples  that  over  us  hung, 

Which  threw  o'er  her  cheek  its  soft  splendour; 
And  the  wild  birds  around  us  that  lovingly  sung, 

Which  made  her  low  warble  so  tender  ? 

You  remember  the  bridal-time,  bright  with  the  flow 

Of  the  cup  as  deceitful  as  cheery, 
And  the  neat  little  cabin-home,  always  a-glow 

With  the  sweet  smile  of  Dillie,  my  dearie  ! 
When  the  wine  smothered  love's  passionate  flame, 

Her  blue  eyes  drooped  mournful  and  lowly ; 
How  sadly  she  watched  for  the  footstep  that  came 

Each  night  time  more  slowly  and  slowly ! 

The  path  going  down  to  the  apple-tree,  still 

Winds  over  the  slope  of  the  meadow ; 
The  dear  little  cabin  peeps  over  the  hill — 

But  the  roses  run  wild  in  its  shadow ! 
Don't  you  remember  the  ivy-grown  church 

We  used  to  think  lonesome  and  dreary  ? 
Beneath  the  blue  marble,  just  under  the  birch, 

Lies  Dillie,  lost  Dillie,  my  dearie ! 


PICTURES   OF    MEMORY.  97 


PICTURES  OF   MEMORY. 

Among  the  beautiful  pictures 

That  hang  on  Memory's  wall, 
Is  one  of  a  dim  old  forest, 

That  seemeth  best  of  all : 
Not  for  its  gnarled  oaks  olden, 

Dark  with  the  mistletoe ; 
Not  for  the  violets  golden 

That  sprinkle  the  vale  below ; 
Not  for  the  milk-white  lilies 

That  lead  from  the  fragrant  hedge, 
Coquetting  all  day  with  the  sunbeams, 

And  stealing  their  golden  edge; 
Not  for  the  vines  on  the  upland 

Where  the  bright  red  berries  rest, 
Nor  the  pinks,  nor  the  pale,  sweet  cowslip, 

It  seemeth  to  me  the  best. 

I  once  had  a  little  brother, 

"With  eyes  that  were  dark  and  deep — 
In  the  lap  of  that  old  dim  forest 

He  lieth  in  peace  asleep  : 
Light  as  the  down  of  the  thistle, 

Free  as  the  winds  that  blow, 
We  roved  there  the  beautiful  summers, 

The  summers  of  long  ago  ; 


98  POEMS   BY  ALICE   CAREY 

But  his  feet  on  the  hills  grew  weary, 
And,  one  of  the  autumn  eves, 

I  made  for  my  little  brother 
A  bed  of  the  yellow  leaves. 

Sweetly  his  pale  arms  folded 

My  neck  in  a  meek  embrace, 
As  the  light  of  immortal  beauty 

Silently  covered  his  face  : 
And  when  the  arrows  of  sunset 

Lodged  in  the  tree-tops  bright, 
He  fell,  in  his  saint-like  beauty, 

Asleep  by  the  gates  of  light. 
Therefore,  of  all  the  pictures 

That  hang  on  Memory's  wall, 
The  one  of  the  dim  old  forest 

Seemeth  the  best  of  all. 


THE   TWO   MISSIONARIES. 

In  the  pyramid's  heavy  shadows, 

And  by  the  Nile's  deep  flood, 
They  leaned  on  the  arm  of  Jesus, 

And  preached  to  the  multitude  : 
Where  only  the  ostrich  and  parrot 

Went  by  on  the  burning  sands, 
They  builded  to  G-od  an  altar, 

Lifting  up  holy  hands. 


THE   TWO    MISSIONARIES.  99 

But  even  while  kneeling  lowly 

At  the  foot  of  the  cross  to  pray, 
Eternity's  shadows  slowly 

Stole  over  their  pilgrim  way  : 
And  one,  with  the  journey  weary, 

And  faint  with  the  spirit's  strife, 
Fell  sweetly  asleep  in  Jesus, 

Hard  by  the  gates  of  life. 

Oh,  not  in  Gethsemane's  garden, 

And  not  by  Genesareth's  wave, 
The  light,  like  a  golden  mantle, 

O'erspreadeth  his  lowly  grave ; 
But  the  bird  of  the  burning  desert 

Goes  by  with  a  noiseless  tread, 
And  the  tent  of  the  restless  Arab 

Is  silently  near  him  spread. 

Oh,  could  we  remember  only, 

Who  shrink  from  the  slightest  ill, 
His  sorrows,  who,  bruised  and  lonely, 

Wrought  on  in  the  vineyard  still — 
Surely  the  tale  of  sorrow 

Would  fall  on  the  mourner's  breast, 
Hushing,  like  oil  on  the  waters, 

The  troubled  wave  to  rest. 


100  POEMS   BY   ALICE   CAREY. 


LEILA. 

Gone  from  us  hast  thou,  in  thy  girlish  hours, 

What  time  the  tenderest  blooms  of  summer  cease ; 

In  thy  young  bosom  bearing  life's  pale  flowers 
To  the  sweet  city  of  eternal  peace. 

In  the  soft  stops  of  silver  singing  rain, 
Faint  be  the  falling  of  the  pale-rose  light 

O'er  thy  meek  slumber,  wrapt  away  from  pain 
In  the  fair  robes  of  dainty  bridal  white. 

Seven  nights  the  stars  have  wandered  through  the  blue, 
Since  thou  to  larger,  holier  life  wert  born ; 

And  day  as  often,  sandaled  with  gray  dew, 
Has  trodden  out  the  golden  fires  of  morn. 

Oft,  ere  the  dim  waves  of  the  sea  of  wo 

Clasp  the  green  shore  of  immortality, 
Life,  like  a  planet  cursed,  lays  down  its  glow, 

And  blindly  wanders  o'er  immensity. 

And,  from  thy  starless  passage  and  untried, 
Faith  shrank  alarmed  at  feeble  nature's  cry; 

Ere  yet  life's  broken  waves  had  multiplied 
The  intense  radiance  of  eternity. 


THE    HANDMAID.  101 

But  now,  on  every  sunbeam  leaning  bright 
Across  the  white  mists,  trembling  o'er  the  sea, 

My  soul  goes  forth,  as  on  a  path  of  light, 
Questioning  all  things  beautiful  of  thee. 

Nor  shall  distrust  or  doubt  my  spirit  move, 
Doomed  though  it  be  the  seal  of  wo  to  wear ; 

Since  the  blest  memory  of  deathless  love 
Stands  like  a  star  between  me  and  despair. 


THE   HANDMAID. 

Why  rests  a  shadow  on  her  woman's  heart  ? 

In  life's  more  girlish  hours  it  was  not  boj 
111  hath  she  learned  to  hide  with  harmless  art 

The  soundings  of  the  plummet-line  of  wo ! 

Oh  what  a  world  of  tenderness  looks  through 
The  melting  sapphire  of  her  mournful  eyes ; 

Less  softly-moist  are  violets  full  of  dew, 
And  the  delicious  colour  of  the  skies. 

Serenely  amid  worship  doth  she  move, 

Counting  its  passionate  tenderness  as  dross; 

And  tempering  the  pleadings  of  earth's  love, 
In  the  still,  solemn  shadows  of  the  cr 

It  ig  not  that  her  heart  is  cold  or  vain, 

That  thus  she  moves  through  many  worshipp  ra  , 

9* 


102  TOEIVIS   BY   ALICE   CAREY. 

No  step  is  lighter  by  the  couch  of  pain, 
No  hand  on  fever's  brow  lies  soft  as  hers. 

From  the  loose  flowing  of  her  amber  hair 
The  summer  flowers  we  long  ago  unknit, 

As  something  between  joyance  and  despair 
Came  in  the  chamber  of  her  soul  to  sit. 

In  her  white  cheek  the  crimson  burns  as  faint 
As  red  doth  in  some  cold  star's  chastened  beam  '} 

The  tender  meekness  of  the  pitying  saint 
Lends  all  her  life  the  beauty  of  a  dream. 

Thus  doth  she  move  among  us  day  by  day, 
Loving  and  loved ;  but  passion  cannot  move 

The  young  heart  that  has  wrapped  itself  away 
In  the  soft  mantle  of  a  Saviour's  love  ! 


THE   POOR. 


Cradled  in  poverty — unloved,  alone, 
Seeing  far  off  the  wave  of  gladness  roll ; 

Sorrow,  to  happier  fortune  never  known, 
Strikes  deep  its  poison-roots  within  the  soul ! 

What  need  is  there  for  rhetoric  to  seek 
For  the  fine  phrase  of  eloquence,  to  tell 

Of  the  eye  sunken,  and  the  hueless  cheek, 

Where  naked  want  and  gnawing  hunger  dwell  ? 


THE   TOOR.  103 

Down  in  the  lanes  and  alleys  of  life's  mart 
Are  beds  of  angnish  that  no  kind  hands  tend ; 

And  friendless  wanderers,  without  map  or  chart, 
Urged  to  despair,  or,  worse,  a  nameless  end  ! 

Their  very  smiles  are  bitter,  in  whose  track 
The  fountains  are  with  penury  made  chill; 

For  by  their  smiles,  their  sighs  are  driven  back 
To  stifle  in  the  heart-strings,  and  be  still ! 

The  poor  are  criminals !  The  opulent  man 
Is  unsuspected,  and  must  needs  be  true ; 

Such  is  the  popular  verdict,  such  the  plan 

That  gives  the  loathsome  hangman  work  to  do ! 

If  he  who  treads  the  convict's  gloomy  cell, 

To  soothe  Heaven's  vengeance  with  officious  prayer, 

Had  dealt  as  kindly  with  him  ere  he  fell, 
Haply  his  presence  had  been  needless  there ! 

Oh  there  is  need  of  union,  firm  and  strong, 

Of  effort  vigorous  and  directed  well ; 
To  rescue  weakness  from  oppressive  wrong 

Would  shake  the  deep  foundations  of  dark  hell ! 

Dear  are  the  humble  in  God's  equal  sight, 
And  every  hair  upon  their  heads  he  sees, 

Even  as  the  laurel  freshening  in  the  light, 
That  trails  along  the  path  of  centurL  ;e  ! 

Then  treat  them  kindly,  for  the  selfsame  hand, 
(And  with  as  large  an  exercise  of  power,) 

That  makes  the  planets  in  their  order  Stand, 
Gives  its  meek  beauty  to  the  desert  fl-  i 


10-1  POEMS   BY   ALICE   CAREY. 


HEAVEN   ON  EARTH. 

Oh,  in  this  beautiful  world  I  fain  would  deem 
Some  things,  at  least,  are  what  they  seem  to  me ; 

That  deepest  joy  is  no  ideal  dream, 

Linking  the  thought  to  something  yet  to  be. 

That  in  the  living  present,  we  can  find 

Enough  to  smooth  the  way  beneath  our  feet, — 

That  where  heart  blends  with  heart  and  mind  with  niind, 
Even  life's  bitterest  bitter  hath  a  sweet! 

I've  dreamed  of  heaven — the  full  and  perfect  bliss 
That  waits  the  spirit  in  a  larger  sphere  j 

And,  looking  up,  have  found  enough  in  this 
To  realize  the  rapturous  vision  here ! 

God  hath  made  all  things  beautiful — the  sky, 
The  common  earth,  the  sunshine,  and  the  shade ; 

And  with  affections  that  can  never  die, 
Hath  gifted  every  creature  He  hath  made. 

Oh  they  but  mock  us  with  a  hollow  lie, 

Who  make  this  goodly  land  a  vale  of  tears ; 

For  if  the  soul  hath  immortality, 

This  is  the  infancy  of  deathless  years. 

And  if  we  live  as  God  has  given  us  power, 

Heaven  is  begun  :  no  blind  fatality 
Can  shut  the  living  soul  from  its  high  dower 

Of  shaping  out  a  glorious  destiny  ! 


FAR   AWAY.  105 


FAR  AWAY. 

Far  away,  far  away,  there's  a  region  of  bliss 

Too  bright  for  our  vision  to  view, 
Though  faintly  its  glories  are  mirrored  in  this, 

As  the  light  of  the  stars  in  the  dew. 

The  loved  and  the  loving  of  life's  early  day, 

Who  left  us  in  sorrow  and  gloom, 
Are  all  in  that  beautiful  land,  far  away, 

Where  the  roses  are  always  in  bloom. 

'Tis  true  we  have  moments  of  bliss,  even  here, 

But  brief  is  the  shadowless  sky; 
For  hope,  when  the  brightest,  is  mingled  with  fear, 

And  to  live,  is  to  know  we  must  die. 

The  sunshine  is  followed  by  darkness  and  storm, 

And  friendship  endures  but  a  day, 
And,  oh  !  while  the  kiss  of  devotion  is  warm, 

The  loved  and  the  trusted  betray. 

How  oft,  when  the  bride  with  her  garland  is  cro.vn'd, 

The  roses  are  brought  from  the  grave  ! 
And  the  sunniest  fountain  that  ever  I  found 

Had  the  serpent  concealed  in  its  wave. 

Then  why  should  I  mourn  thee,  lost  friend  of  my  soul  ? 

Death  cannot  divide  us  for  aye, 
Though  dark  are  the  billows  between  us  that  roll, 

We'll  meet  in  that  home  far  away. 


106  POEMS   BY  ALICE   CAREY. 


■ 

Know  ye  the  land  where  the  roses  and  lilies 

Are  bright  on  the  hills,  as  the  wing  of  a  bird, — 
Where  down  in  the  depths  of  the  beautiful  valleys 

The  song  of  the  worshipper  always  is  heard  ? 

;Tis  up  where  they  mourn  not  o'er  time  and  its  fleetness, 

But,  free  from  the  cumbering  cries  of  the  clod, 
Their  songs  are  the  chains  that  in  rapturous  sweetness 

Link  men  to  the  angels,  and  angels  to  Grod  ! 

Sometimes  with  the  eve  in  her  starry  tiara 

And  mantle  of  gold  sitting  down  in  the  west, 
Like  echoes  of  harps  from  a  far-away  prairie, 

Faint  melodies  float  from  the  land  of  the  blest. 

And  sometimes,  when  sighing  for  one  who  would  love  me 

And  share  with  me  always  in  sadness  or  glee, 
I  see,  from  a  soft  island  floating  above  me, 

A  pale  hand  of  beauty  that  beckons  to  me ! 


FIRST   LOVE.  107 


FIKST   LOVE. 

Father  of  light,  thy  child  recall, 

She  hath  known  of  earthly  hliss  the  all ; 

She  hath  loved  and  been  beloved. — Schiller. 

Come  with  me,  dear  one,  from  these  haunted  dells ! 

Still  doth  she  linger,  oh  !  so  sad  and  meek ; 
Though  joy  no  more  her  maiden  bosom  swells, 

Nor  kissing  zephyr  crimsons  her  white  cheek. 

In  the  cool  shade  of  my  delicious  bower 

This  mournful  whisper  of  the  past  shall  cease ; 

There  will  I  fold  thee  to  my  heart,  pale  flower ; 
Come,  lovely  trembler,  give  thyself  to  peace. 

Sweet-throated  birds  with  glowing  wings  are  there, 
Filling  the  woods  with  beauty  all  day  long ; 

How  softly  thou  wilt  swim  away  from  care, 
Upon  the  charmed  wave  of  some  blest  song. 

Faintly  her  young  heart  trembles,  and  the  fringe 
Lifts  from  the  dewy  wells  of  her  clear  eyes; 

Her  thin  cheek  deepens  to  a  pale  rose  tinge — 
And  doth  she  love  him  ?  Hush  !  that  look  replies. 

The  golden  tissue  of  love's  web  was  crossed 
With  a  'lark  sorrow,  in  this  very  vale; 


108  POEMS   BY  ALICE   CAREY. 

Gone  is  the  beautiful  dream,  its  love-light  lost, 
The  winding  sheet  were  scarcely  now  so  pale. 

And  thy  sweet,  passionate  pleading  all  is  vain, 
Young  wooer,  of  the  eloquent  lip  and  eye; 

Her  heart  clings  closer  to  its  tender  pain 
If  joy  but  whisper;  leave  her,  then,  to  die. 

For  still  she  lingers  in  this  haunted  spot, 

The  light  wind  playing  with  her  yellow  hair, 

And  nestling  to  her  cheek,  she  heeds  it  not ; 

Then  leave,  oh  !  leave  her — all  her  world  is  there ! 


THE   MILL-MAID. 

Now  comb  her  golden  hair  away ; 

Meekly  and  sorrow-laden 
She  waited  for  the  closing  day — 

Poor  broken-hearted  maiden ! 
The  ring  from  off  her  finger  slip, 

And  fold  her  hands  together ; 
No  more  love's  music  on  her  lip 

Will  tremble  like  a  feather. 

Each  Sabbath-time  along  the  aisle 
Her  step  more  faintly  sounded, 

The  light  grew  paler  in  her  smile 
Her  cheek  less  softly  rounded ; 


THE    MILL-MAID.  109 

But  never  sank  we  in  despair 

Till  with  that  fearful  crying, 
"  The  rnill-niaid  of  the  golden  hair 

And  lily  hand  is  dying !" 

"When  the  dim  shadows  of  the  birch 

Above  her  rest  are  swaying, 
The  pastor  of  the  village  church 

Shall  bless  the  place  with  praying : 
Deeming  the  voiceless  sacrifice 

A  loved  and  lovely  blossom, 
Blown  by  the  winds  of  Paradise 

To  Jesus'  folding  bosom. 

The  mill-wheel  for  a  day  is  still, 

The  spindle  ceased  its  plying, 
The  little  homestead  on  the  hill 

Looks  sadder  for  her  dying ; 
But  ere  the  third  time  in  the  spire 

The  Sabbath  bell  is  ringing, 
Xot  one  of  all  the  village  choir 

Will  miss  the  mill-maid's  singing. 


1" 


110  POEMS   BY   ALICE   CAREY. 


LOYE. 

Nay,  do  not  pity  me,  that  not  a  star 

Hangs  in  the  bosom  of  my  stormy  sky, 

Nor  winglet  of  white  feathers  flutters  by, 
Nor  like  a  soft  dream  swims  or  near  or  far 

The  golden  atmosphere  of  poesy. 
Down  in  the  heart  from  frivolous  joys  aloof 

Burn  the  pale  fires,  whose  keen  intensity 
Flames  through  the  web  of  life's  discoloured  woof, 

And  lights  the  white  walls  of  eternity. 
Alas  !  the  ravishments  of  Love's  sweet  trust 

May  charm  my  life  no  more  to  passion's  glow ; 
Nor  the  light  kisses  of  a  lip  of  dust 

Crimson  my  forehead  with  the  seal  of  wo ; 
Well,  were  it  otherwise,  'tis  better  so ! 


DEATH.  Ill 


DEATH. 

With  your  pale  burden,  gently,  gently  tread — 

She  came  to  us  a  bride  a  year  ago 

And  now  Love's  sweet  star  crimsons  the  pale  snow 
About  her  early,  melancholy  bed. 
Why  weep  ye  for  her  ?     She  hath  done  with  pain, 

And  meekly  to  our  common  portion  bowed. 
Unthread  the  roses  from  the  shining  train 

Of  her  long  tresses,  and  prepare  the  shroud  ! 
Her  heart  was  full  of  dreams  of  heavenly  birth,  ' 

While  in  the  borders  of  dim  life  she  stayed, 

Like  some  young  lily  golden  dews  had  weighed 
Down  to  the  chilly  bosom  of  the  earth  : 

For  but  the  wing  of  death,  while  here  she  trod, 

Rested  between  her  beautiful  life  and  God. 


112  POEMS   BY   ALICE   CAREY. 


THE  CHARMED  BIRD. 

"  Mother,  oh,  mother  !  this  morning  when  "Will 
And  Mary  and  I  had  gone  out  on  the  hill, 
We  stopped  in  the  orchard  to  climb  in  the  trees, 
And  broke  off  the  blossoms  that  sweetened  the  breeze, 
When  right  down  before  us,  and  close  where  we  were, 
There  fluttered  and  fluttered  a  bird  in  the  air. 

u  Its  crest  was  so  glossy,  so  bright  were  its  eyes, 

And  its  wings,  oh!  their  colour  was  just  like  the  skies; 

And  still  as  it  chirped,  and  kept  eddying  round 

In  narrower  circles  and  nearer  the  ground, 

We  looked,  and  all  hid  in  the  leaves  of  the  brake, 

We  saw,  don't  you  think,  oh !  the  ugliest  snake  I" 

Caressingly  folding  the  child  in  her  arms, 
With  thoughts  of  sweet  birds  in  a  world  full  of  charms, 
"  My  child,"  said  the  mother,  "  in  life's  later  hours 
Remember  the  morning  you  stopped  for  the  flowers ; 
And  still  when  you  think  of  the  bird  in  the  air, 
Forget  not,  my  love,  that  the  serpent  was  there." 


PRIDE.  113 


PRIDE. 


Tiikre  is  a  pride  of  heart,  a  damning  pride, 
To  which  men  sacrifice,  that  I  detest  j 

And  Peter-like,  what  thousands  would  have  lied 
Even  with  profanation,  or  confessed 

The  Lord  of  glory  with  a  burning  cheek, 

If  Pilate  and  the  Rulers  heard  them  speak. 

Man  sees  his  weaker  brother  faint  and  die, 
And  coldly  passes  on  the  other  side ; 

Because  within  his  bosom  darkly  lie 

The  poisoned  shadows  of  that  Upas,  pride, 

"Which,  since  from  bliss  the  rebel  angels  fell, 

Trail  downward  to  the  very  gates  of  hell ! 

"When,  with  the  blushes  burning  on  her  cheek, 
And  her  dark  locks  unbound,  the  sinful  came, 

And  humbly  sat  herself  at  Jesus'  feet, 

Bid  he  reproach  her  with  her  life  of  shame  ? 

But  for  the  many  who  aside  have  turned, 

How  hardly  is  that  beautiful  lesson  learned ! 


10* 


114  POEMS   BY   ALICE   CAREY. 


MISSIVE. 

Know  thou  this  truth,  which  the  creeds  cannot  smother, 
Wherever  man  is  found,  there  is  thy  brother; 
God  his  blest  sire  is,  earth  is  his  mother — 

Where  most  degraded,  thy  zeal  most  increase ; 
Aid  him  and  help  him,  till,  ceasing  to  falter, 
He  shall  come  up  to  humanity's  altar, 

"  Bearing  white  blocks  for  the  city  of  Peace. " 

Shrink  not  away  from  the  common  and  lowly — 
Good  deeds,  though  never  so  humble,  are  holy  ; 
And  though  the  recompense  fall  to  thee  slowly, 

Heroes  unnumbered  before  thee  have  trod ; 
By  the  sweet  light  of  their  blessed  example, 
Work  on — the  field  of  love's  labour  is  ample — 

Trusting  Humanity,  trusting  in  God  ! 

Fight  down  the  Wrong,  howe'er  specious  its  bearing, 
Lighten  the  burdens  about  thee  by  sharing, 
Fear  not  the  glorious  peril  of  daring, 

Be  it  the  rack  or  the  prison's  dull  bars ; 
Hands  are  stretched  out  from  the  graves  of  past  ages, 
To, brighten  with  holy  deeds  history's  pages — 

Martyr-fires  burn  as  intensely  as  $ 


ONE    DEPARTED.  115 

Never  >it  down  by  the  wayside  to  sorrow — 
Hope  is  a  good  angel,  whence  we  may  borrow 
Beauty  and  gladness  and  light  for  the  morrow, 

However  dark  be  the  present  with  ill; 
And  the  far  waves  of  Time's  sorrowful  river, 
Wandering  and  weary  and  moaning  for 

Break  on  the  rock  of  Eternity  still. 


ONE  DEPARTED. 


Blest  inspiration  of  unworthy  song, 

A  heart  of  tender  sadness  wooes  thee  back ; 

If  in  blind  weakness  I  have  done  thee  wrong, 
Accord  me  sweet  forgiveness  !    Like  the  track 

Of  a  bright  bird,  whereon  soft  notes  are  cast — 

The  time,  the  place  is  where  I  saw  thee  lae 

Life  has  been  weary  with  me  since  we  met, 
Though  in  it  moments  of  deep  joy  there  lie, 

Soft,  as  we  see  in  cloud-rifts,  cold  and  wet, 
Blue  shifting  patches  of  the  summer  sky  : 

For  oft,  thy  gold  locks  wet  with  my  salt  tears, 

Thy  gentle  semblance  from  the  dust  appears  ! 

In  the  cold  mists  of  morn,  at  evening  soft, 
"When  odours  make  the  winds  so  heavy-sweet, 

Stretching  my  arms  out,  I  have  called  thee  oft, 
And  niulii  has  hear!  the  soundings  of  my  feet 


116  POEMS   BY   ALICE   CAREY. 

Where  the  blue  slabs  of  marble,  icy  chill, 
Keep  in  thy  breast  life's  azure  rivers  still ! 

Like  the  faint  dim  vibrations  of  a  lay 

We  sometimes  half  remember,  half  forget, 

Thou,  in  the  winding-sheet  long  wrapt  away, 
Troublest  my  heart  with  wildering  beauty  yet : 

Nor  have  I  ever  met  with  mortal  form 

Sweet  as  thy  shadow  to  my  clasping  arm  ! 

Fade  back  to  ashes,  visitant  divine, 

Unutterably  radiant  as  thou  art, 
If  ever  smile  of  dewy  lip,  save  thine, 

Hath  touched  the  darkened  ruins  of  my  heart ! 
Thou  wert  in  thy  young  life,  and  still  dost  seem, 
The  sweet  and  passionate  music  of  a  dream. 

Sleep  seals  thy  gentle  eyes,  but  we  are  wed ; 

Thou  wait'st  my  coming — shall  I  traitor  prove 
To  the  deep  slumbers  of  the  bridal  bed, 

And  the  birth-chamber  of  immortal  love  ? 
No !  as  the  sweet  rain  visits  the  pale  bloom, 
I  will  come  softly  to  thee  in  the  tomb  ! 


MUSINGS    BY   THREE   GRAVES.  117 


MUSINGS  BY  THREE   GRAVES. 

The  dappled  clouds  are  broken ;  bright  and  clear 
Comes  up  the  broad  and  glorious  star  of  day ; 

And  night,  the  shadowy,  like  a  hunted  deer, 
Flies  from  the  close  pursuer  fast  away. 

Now  on  my  ear  a  murmur  faintly  swells, 
And  now  it  gathers  louder  and  more  deep, 

As  the  sweet  music  of  the  village  bells 
Rouses  the  drowsy  rustic  from  his  sleep. 

Hark  !  there's  a  footstep  startling  up  the  birds, 
And  now  as  softly  steals  the  breeze  along ; 

I  hear  the  sound,  and  almost  catch  the  words 
Of  the  sweet  fragment  of  a  pensive  song. 

And  yonder,  in  the  clover-scented  vale — 
Her  bonnet  in  her  hand,  and  simply  clad — 

I  see  the  milkmaid  with  her  flowing  pail : 
Alas  !  what  is  it  makes  her  song  so  sad  ? 

In  the  seclusion  of  these  lowly  dells 

"What  mournful  lesson  has  her  bosom  learned  ? 
Is  it  the  memory  of  sad  farewells, 

Or  faithless  love,  or  friendship  unre turned? 


118  POEMS   BY   ALICE    CAREY. 

Methinks  yon  sunburnt  swain,  with  knotted  thong, 
And  rye-straw  hat  slouched  careless  on  his  brow, 

Whistled  more  loudly,  passing  her  along, 
To  yoke  his  patient  oxen  to  the  plough. 

'Tis  all  in  vain  !  she  heeds  not,  if  she  hears, 
And,  sadly  musing,  separate  ways  they  go, — 

Oh,  who  shall  tell  how  many  bitter  tears 
Are  mingled  in  the  brightest  fount  below  ? 

Poor,  simple  tenant  of  another's  lands, 
Vexed  with  no  dream  of  heraldic  renown ; 

No  more  the  earnings  of  his  sinewy  hands 
Shall  make  his  spirit  like  the  thistle's  down. 

Smile  not,  recipient  of  a  happier  fate, 

And  haply  better  formed  life's  ills  to  bear, 

If  e'er  you  pause  to  read  the  name  and  date 
Of  one  who  died  the  victim  of  despair. 

Now  morn  is  fully  up;  and  while  the  dew 
From  off  her  golden  locks  is  brightly  shed, 

In  the  deep  shadows  of  the  solemn  yew, 
I  sit  alone  and  muse  above  the  dead. 

Not  with  the  blackbird  whistling  in  the  brake, 
Nor  when  the  rabbit  lightly  near  them  treads, 

Shall  they  from  their  deep  slumbering  awake, 
Who  lie  beneath  me  in  their  narrow  beds. 


MUSINGS    BY   TIIREE   GRAVES.  119 

Oh,  what  is  life  ?  at  best  a  narrow  bound, 

Where  each  that  lives  some  baffled  hope  survives — 

A  search  for  something,  never  to  be  found, 
Kecords  the  history  of  the  greatest  lives ! 

There  is  a  haven  for  each  weary  bark, 

A  port  where  they  who  rest  are  free  from  sin; 

But  we,  like  children  trembling  in  the  dark, 
Drive  on  and  on,  afraid  to  enter  in. 

Here  lies  an  aged  patriarch  at  rest, 

To  whom  the  needy  never  vainly  cried, 

Till  in  this  vale,  with  toil  and  years  oppressed, 
His  long-sustaining  staff  was  laid  aside. 

Oft  for  his  country  had  he  fought  and  bled, 
And  gladly,  when  the  lamp  of  life  grew  dim, 

He  joined  the  silent  army  of  the  dead — 

Then  why  should  tears  of  sorrow  flow  for  him  ? 

We  mourn  not  for  the  cornfield's  deepening  gold, 
Nor  when  the  sickle  on  the  hills  is  plied; 

And  wherefore  should  we  sorrow  for  the  old, 

"Who  perish  when  life's  paths  have  all  been  tried? 

How  oft  at  noon,  beneath  the  orchard  trees, 

With  brow  serene  and  venerably  fair, 
I've  seen  a  little  prattler  on  his  knees 

Smoothing  with  dimpled  hand  his  silver  hair. 


120  POEMS   BY   ALICE   CAREY. 

When  music  floated  on  the  sunny  hills, 

And  trees  and  shrubs  with  opening  flowers  were  drest, 
She  meekly  put  aside  life's  cup  of  ills, 

And  kindly  neighbours  laid  her  here  to  rest. 

And  ye  who  loved  her,  would  ye  call  her  back, 
Where  its  deep  thirst  the  soul  may  never  slake ; 

And  Sorrow,  with  her  lean  and  hungry  pack, 
Pursues  through  every  winding  which  we  take  ? 

Where  lengthened  years  but  teach  the  bitter  truth 
That  transient  preference  does  not  make  a  friend ; 

That  manhood  disavows  the  love  of  youth, 
And  riper  years  of  manhood,  to  the  end. 

Beneath  this  narrow  heap  of  mouldering  earth, 
Hard  by  the  mansions  of  the  old  and  young, 

A  wife  and  mother  sleeps,  whose  humble  worth 
And  quiet  virtues  poet  never  sung. 

With  yonder  cabin,  half  with  ivy  veiled, 
And  children  by  the  hand  of  mercy  sent, 

And  love's  sweet  star,  that  never,  never  paled, 
Her  bosom  knew  the  fulness  of  content. 

Mocking  ambition  never  came  to  tear 
The  finest  fibres  from  her  heart  away, — 

The  aim  of  her  existence  was  to  bear 

The  cross  in  patient  meekness  day  by  day. 


MUSINGS    BY   TIIREE   GRAVES.  T21 

No  hopeless,  blind  idolater  of  chance, 

The  sport  and  plaything  of  each  wind  that  blows, 
But  lifting  still  by  faith  a  heavenward  glance, 

She  saw  the  waves  of  death  around  her  close. 

And  here  her  children  come  with  pious  tears, 
And  strew  their  simple  offerings  in  the  sod; 

And  learn  to  tread  like  her  the  vale  of  years, 
Beloved  of  man,  and  reconciled  to  Grod. 

Now  from  the  village  school  the  urchins  come, 
And  shout  and  laughter  echo  far  and  wide ; 

The  blue  smoke  curls  from  many  a  rustic  home, 
Where  all  their  simple  wants  are  well  supplied. 

The  laboured  hedger,  pausing  by  the  way, 
Picks  the  ripe  berries  from  the  gadding  vine  : 

The  axe  is  still,  the  cattle  homeward  stray, 
And  transient  glories  mark  the  day's  decline. 


11 


122  POEMS   BY   ALICE   CAREY. 


TO  THE  EVENING  ZEPHYR. 

I  sit  where  the  wild  bee  is  humming, 
And  listen  in  vain  for  thy  song; 

I've  waited  before  for  thy  coming, 
But  never,  oh  !  never  so  long. 

How  oft,  with  the  blue  sky  above  us, 
And  waves  breaking  light  on  the  shore, 

Thou,  knowing  they  would  not  reprove  us, 
Hast  kissed  me  a  thousand  times  o'er  ! 

So  sweet  were  thy  dewy  embraces, 
Thy  falsity  who  could  believe ! 

Some  phantom  thy  fondness  effaces — 
Thou  couldst  not  have  aimed  to  deceive  ? 

Thou  toldest  thy  love  for  me  never, 
But  all  the  bright  stars  in  the  skies,^ 

Though  striving  to  do  so  for  ever, 

Could  scarcely  have  numbered  thy  sighs. 

Alone  in  the  gathering  shadows, 

Still  waiting,  sweet  Zephyr,  for  thee,  q 

I  look  for  the  waves  of  the  meadows, 
And  dimples  to  dot  the  blue  sea. 


TO   THE   EVENING    ZEPHYR.  123 

The  blossoms  that  waited  to  greet  thee 

With  heat  of  the  noontide  opprest, 
Now  flutter  so  lightly  to  meet  thee, 

Thou'rt  coming,  I  know,  from  the  "West. 

Alas  !  if  thou  findest  me  pouting, 

;Tis  only  my  love  that  alarms; 
Forgive,  then,  I  pray  thee,  my  doubting, 

And  take  me  once  more  to  thy  arms ! 


Jlnstnn*. 

BY   MAJOE   G.   W.   PATTEN,   U.   S.  A. 

On  !  sweet  as  the  prayer  of  devotion 

Comes  thy  song,  fair  enchantress,  to  me; 

And  cleaving  through  mists  of  the  ocean 
I  quicken  my  pinions  for  thee. 

I  know  that  no  day-breeze  has  dallied 
Unreproved,  with  thy  ringlets  of  jet, 

Since  the  moon  when  so  gayly  I  sallied 
From  thy  lips  with  my  dew  kisses  wet. 

That  I  love  thee,  I  cannot  dissemble — 

fcwould  not  if  even  I  might ; 
At  thy  touch  doth  my  light  pinion  tremble, 

And  my  voice  murmurs  low  at  thy  sight 


124  POEMS    BY   ALICE    CAREY. 

Though  born  for  the  pathways  of  heaven, 

My  wing  ever  shadows  the  lea, 
If  I  rise  with  the  light  clouds  of  even, 

I  soar  but  to  wander  to  thee. 

I've  sported  in  evergreen  bowers 

With  blossoms  sweet-scented  and  gay, 

And  I've  toyed,  mid  those  beautiful  flow 
"With  beings  as  peerless  as  they : 

But  naught  did  I  ever  discover, 

Whose  nature  seemed  nearer  divine, 

Than  the  lip  of  my  warm-hearted  lover 
When  its  kisses  are  mingled  with  mine. 

Then  no  more  "  where  the  wild  bee  is  humming, 
Stay  to  "at"  and  to  " listen  in  vain;" 

I  shall  come — even  now  am  I  coining; 
To  fondle  and  fan  thee  again. 


lUsjintiHL 


O'er  clouds  of  carnation  and  amber 
Shone  faintly  the  first  gentle  star, 

As  I  caught  from  the  hush  of  my  chamber 
Thy  answering  song  from  afar. 

% 

If  false,  thou  hast  sweetly  dissembled, 
Light  spirit  of  mountain  and  sea, 


TO   THE   EVENING   ZEPHYR.  125 

And  I — how  my  glad  bosom  trembled 
At  even  that  whisper  from  thee  ! 

Stoop  down  if  thou  wilt,  breezy  rover, 
To  the  blossoms  thy  pathway  along, 

But  lightly,  my  dewy-lipped  lover, 
And  oh  !  sing  them  not  such  a  song. 

For  never  an  elfin  nor  fairy, 

Nor  warbler  with  wing  on  the  sky, 
Nor  white-bosomed  bird  of  the  prairie 

Could  love  thee  so  fondly  as  I. 

Not  a  moment  the  day-breeze  has  trifled 
"Unreproved  with  my  ringlets  of  jet," 

Since  the  moon  when  my  fond  heart  was  rifled, 
The  moon  when  as  lovers  we  met. 

Chanting  over  thy  song  of  devotion, 
I'll  watch  from  the  hill-tops  each  day, 

For  the  path  through  the  white  mists  of  ocean 
Where  thy  pinion  is  cleaving  its  way. 

Till  the  last  summer-bee  ceases  humming — 

The  last  bird  goes  over  the  sea, 
Since  thou  sayst,  "I  will  come,  I  am  coming," 

I'll  wait,  my  sweet  Zephyr,  for  thee  ! 


11* 


126  POEMS   BY   ALICE   CAREY. 


THE   SAILOR'S  STORY. 

Night  is  falling,  clouds  are  sweeping, 
And,  ere  morning,  there  may  be 

Many  a  brother  sailor  sleeping 
In  the  white  arms  of  the  sea. 

But  with  courage  tempest-daring, 

Hearts  through  all  things  true  and  warm, 

Warily  our  vessel  wearing, 

We  may  weather  out  the  storm. 

And,  as  o'er  each  other  rising, 
Billows  sweep  our  deck,  as  then, 

Even  as  impulses  of  sorrow 

Cross  the  souls  of  wicked  men ; 

Listen,  comrades,  to  a  story 

Which  the  night  with  hope  may  arm — 
Heaven's  soft  rainbow,  dropt  with  glory, 

Hangs  its  beauty  o'er  the  storm. 

In  the  shadows  of  dark  sorrow, 

By  the  river  of  wild  wo, 
Once  there  was  a  weary  mortal 

Ever  wandering  to  and  fro. 


the  sailor's  story.  127 

Ever  wandering,  ever  gazing, 

Half  in  love  and  half  in  dread, 
On  the  blue  and  sunken  hollows 

Of  that  wretched  river's  bed. 

For,  within  those  grayish  caverns, 

"With  each  billow's  fall  and  rise, 
Coils  of  green  and  yellow  serpents 

Lifted  up  their  hungry  eyes. 

Sadly  dwelt  he,  wrapt  from  sunshine, 
With  a  right  hand  maimed  and  dumb, 

Crying  often  at  th£  noontide, 

"  Will  the  morning  never  come  V 

Once  a  sailor,  lost,  benighted, 

Drifting  on  the  whirlpool's  rim, 
Shouted  for  the  help  that  came  not — 

Messmates,  think  you  that  was  him? 

With  his  long  locks,  briny,  tangled, 

Clasping  a  torn  bosom  round, 
Washed  upon  the  cold,  wet  sand-beach, 

Once  a  dying  man  was  found ; 

Where  the  plumes  of  pale-pink  sea-weed 

Drifted  like  a  sunset  cloud, 
And  the  mists  of  wo's  wild  river 

Hung  about  him  like  a  shroud 


128  POEMS   BY   ALICE   CAREY. 

Morning,  like  a  woman,  clasped  him 
With  her  hair,  a  golden  train, 

And  kissed  back  the  living  crimson 
To  his  pallid  cheek  again. 

But,  as  near  that  solemn  river 
"Wearily  and  slow  he  trod, 

Pitying  eye  of  mortal  never 
Rested  on  that  child  of  God. 

So  the  burning  of  roused  hatred 
In  his  heart  dried  up  the  dew, 

And  the  very  milk  of  kindness 
Bitter  in  its  fountain  grew. 

But  with  light  upon  their  bosoms 
Burning,  burning  evermore, 

Birds  that  nested  in  the  blossoms 
Haunted  that  wild  river-shore — 

Telling  their  sweet-throated  story, 
From  their  morning  beds  of  dew, 

Upward,  on  their  wings  of  glory, 
Farther,  farther  as  they  flew. 

From  that  heart,  despised,  despising, 
Went  a  yearning  for  their  song, 

Like  the  sorrowful  uprising 
Of  a  passion  smothered  long. 


the  sailor's  story.  129 

As  through  waves  of  light  uplifted 

On  and  on  he  saw  them  swim, 
He  forgot  the  boat  that  drifted, 

Helpless,  on  the  whirlpool's  rim. 

And  his  thoughts,  like  winged  swallows 
From  their  dark  home,  rise  and  rise 

O'er  that  river's  sunken  hollows, 
Shining  with  the  hungry  eyes. 

Plunging  in,  like  a  Leander 

With  a  heart  on  fire,  he  flew, 
And  the  waves  before  him  parted, 

Like  a  mist  of  sun  and  dew. 

Once,  a  steed  with  smoking  haunches, 
And  his  loose  mane  streaming  back, 

To  the  rider's  light  caresses 
Bounded  on  a  pathless  track. 

With  his  glossy  neck  strained  forward, 

And  an  eye  of  ocean  blue, 
Through  the  ringing,  moonlit  forest 

Like  an  ebon  shaft  he  flew. 

Like  the  wild  mane  of  the  courser 

Flowing  on  the  wind  upborne, 
Went  the  wild  song  of  the  rider, 

Flowing  from  a  lip  unshorn. 


ICO  POEMS   BY  ALICE   CAREY. 

Something  of  a  wretched  river 
Dimly  moaning  far  behind, 

And  of  birds  with  burning  bosoms, 
Was  that  music  on  the  wind. 

Pushing  back  a  cloud  of  ringlets 
Bound  with  blossoms  pale  as  snow, 

Softly  blushing,  fondly  gazing 
Toward  the  line  of  woods  below } 

Waited  in  her  bridal  chamber 

One  whose  faith  was  never  dim — 

Eager  horseman — frighted  bosom, 
Dost  thou  tremble  so  for  him  ? 


) 


A   LOCK   OF   HAIR 


Three  times  the  zephyr's  whisper, 
And  the  soft  sunlit  showers, 

Have  called  up  from  their  slumber 
The  early  spring-time  flowers, — 

Three  times  the  Summer  wild-birds 
Have  built  among  the  trees, 

And  gone  with  the  dull  Autumn 
Three  times  across  the  seas, — 


A   LOCK   OF   HAIR.  131 

Since  this  bright  lock  was  severed 

In  the  hopelessness  of  bliss : 
0,  there's  a  world  of  eloquence 

In  simple  things  like  this ! 

What  a  tumult  of  strange  feelings 

•It  wakes  within  my  brain  j 
Half  joyous  and  half  sorrowful — 

Half  rapture,  half  of  pain. 

One  moment  I  am  dreaming 

Love's  broken  chain  is  whole, 
And  echoes  of  lost  music 

Are  trembling  in  my  soul. 

Another,  and  I'm  sitting 

Where  the  lights  of  memory  burn, 
And  thinking  of  the  summer-times 

That  never  can  return. 

Oft  in  the  solemn  watches 

Of  the  long  and  weary  night, 
No  link  beside  has  bound  me 

To  the  morning  and  the  light. 

'  'Tis  strange  my  heart  will  vibrate 
From  gladness  to  despair, 
Whenever  I  am  thinking  of 
This  simple  tress  of  hair.  / 


132  POEMS   BY   ALICE   CAREY. 


VISIONS   OF   LIGHT. 

The  moon  is  rising  in  beauty, 
The  sky  is  solemn  and  bright, 

And  the  waters  are  singing  like  lovers 
That  walk  in  the  valleys  at  night. 

Like  the  towers  of  an  ancient  city, 
That  darken  against  the  sky, 

Seems  the  blue  mist  of  the  river 
O'er  the  hill-tops  far  and  high. 

I  see  through  the  gathering  darkness 
The  spire  of  the  village  church, 

And  the  pale  white  tombs,  half  hidden 
By  the  tasselled  willow  and  birch. 

Vain  is  the  golden  drifting 
Of  morning  light  on  the  hill ; 

No  white  hands  open  the  windows 
Of  those  chambers  low  and  still. 

But  their  dwellers  were  all  my  kindred, 
Whatever  their  lives  might  be, 

And  their  sufferings  and  achievements 
Have  recorded  lessons  for  me. 

Not  one  of  the  countless  voyagers 
Of  life's  mysterious  main 


VISIONS   OF   LIGHT.  133 

Has  laid  down  his  burden  of  sorrows, 
Who  hath  lived  and  loved  in  vain. 

From  the  bards  of  the  elder  ages 

Fragments  of  song  float  by, 
Like  flowers  in  the  streams  of  summer, 

Or  stars  in  the  midnight  sky. 

Some  plumes  in  the  dust  are  scattered, 

Where  the  eagles  of  Persia  flew, 
And  wisdom  is  reaped  from  the  furrows 

The  plough  of  the  Roman  drew. 

From  the  white  tents  of  the  Crusaders 

The  phantoms  of  glory  are  gone, 
But  the  zeal  of  the  barefooted  hermit 

In  humanity's  heart  lives  on. 

Oh  !  sweet  as  the  bell  of  the  Sabbath 
In  the  tower  of  the  village  church, 

Or  the  fall  of  the  yellow  moonbeams 
In  the  tasselled  willow  and  birch — 

Comes  a  thought  of  the  blessed  issues 

That  shall  follow  our  social  strife, 
When  the  spirit  of  love  maketh  perfect 

The  beautiful  mission  of  life  : 

For  visions  of  light  are  gathered 

In  the  sunshine  of  flowery  nooks, 
Like  the  shades  of  the  ghostly  Fathers 

In  th'-ir  twilight  cell-  of  bo 

12 


134  POEMS    BY    ALICE   CAREY. 


A  LEGEND  OF  ST.  MARY'S. 

One  night,  when  bitterer  winds  than  ours, 
On  hill-sides  and  in  valleys  low, 

Built  sepulchres  for  the  dead  flowers, 
And  buried  them  in  sheets  of  snow, — 

When  over  ledges  dark  and  cold, 

The  sweet  moon,  rising  high  and  higher, 

Tipped  with  a  dimly  burning  gold 
St.  Mary's  old  cathedral  spire, — 

The  lamp  of  the  confessional, 

(God  grant  it  did  not  burn  in  vain,) 

After  the  solemn  midnight  bell, 

Streamed  redly  through  the  lattice-pane. 

And  kneeling  at  the  father's  feet, 
Whose  long  and  venerable  hairs, 

Now  whiter  than  the  mountain  sleet, 

Could  not  have  numbered  half  his  prayers, 

Was  one — I  cannot  picture  true 
The  cherub  beauty  of  his  guise  ; 

Lilies,  and  waves  of  deepest  blue, 

Were  something  like  his  hands  and  eyes ! 


A   LEGEND   OF   ST.    MARY'S.  135 

Like  yellow  mosses  on  the  rocks, 

Dashed  with  the  ocean's  milk-white  spray, 

The  softness  of  his  golden  locks 
About  his  cheek  and  forehead  lay. 

Father,  thy  tresses,  silver-sleet, 

Ne'er  swept  above  a  form  so  fair ; 
Surely  the  flowers  beneath  his  feet 

Have  been  a  rosary  of  prayer  ! 

"We  know  not,  and  we  cannot  know, 

Why  swam  those  meek  blue  eyes  with  tears ; 

But  surely  guilt,  or  guiltless  wo, 

Had  bowed  him  earthward  more  than  years. 

All  the  long  summer  that  was  gone, 

A  cottage  maid,  the  village  pride, 
Fainter  and  fainter  smiles  had  worn, 

And  on  that  very  night  she  died  ! 

As  soft  the  yellow  moonbeams  streamed 

Across  her  bosom,  snowy  fair, 
She  said,  (the  watchers  thought  she  dreamed,) 

"'Tis  like  the  shadow  of  his  hair!" 

And  they  could  hear,  who  nearest  came, 
The  cross  to  sign  and  hope  to  lend, 

The  murmur  of  another  name 

Than  that  of  mother,  brother,  friend. 

An  hour — and  St.  Mary's  spires, 

Like  spikes  of  flame,  no  longer  glow — 


136  POEMS   BY  ALICE   CAREY. 

No  longer  the  confessional  fires 
Shine  redly  on  the  drifted  snow. 

An  hour — and  the  saints  had  claimed 
That  cottage  niaid,  the  village  pride ) 

And  he,  whose  name  in  death  she  named, 
Was  darkly  weeping  by  her  side. 

White  as  a  spray-wreath  lay  her  brow 
Beneath  the  midnight  of  her  hair, 

But  all  those  passionate  kisses  now 
Wake  not  the  faintest  crimson  there  ! 

Pride,  honour,  manhood,  cannot  check 
The  vehemence  of  love's  despair — 

No  soft  hand  steals  about  his  neck, 
Or  bathes  its  beauty  in  his  hair  ! 

Almost  upon  the  cabin  walls 

Wherein  the  sweet  young  maiden  died, 
The  shadow  of  a  castle  falls, 

Where  for  her  young  lord  waits  a  bride ! 

With  clear  blue  eyes  and  flaxen  hair, 
In  her  high  turret  still  she  sits ; 

But,  ah  !  what  scorn  her  ripe  lips  wear — 
What  shadow  to  her  bosom  flits  ! 

From  that  low  cabin  tapers  flash, 

And,  by  the  shimmering  light  they  spread, 

She  sees  beneath  its  mountain  ash, 
Leafless,  but  all  with  berries  red, 


THE   NOVICE   OF   ST.  MARY'S.  137 

Impatient  of  the  unclasped  rein, 

A  courser  that  should  not  be  there — 

The  silver  whiteness  of  his  mane 

Streaming  like  moonlight  on  the  air ! 

Oh,  Love  !  thou  art  avenged  too  well — 
The  young  heart,  broken  and  betrayed, 

Where  thou  didst  meekly,  sweetly  dwell, 
For  all  its  sufferings  is  repaid. 

Not  the  proud  beauty,  nor  the  frown 

Of  her  who  shares  the  living  years, 
From  her  the  winding-sheet  wraps  down, 

Can  ever  buy  away  the  tears ! 


THE  NOVICE  OF  ST.  MARY'S. 

FROM     "THE     MONASTERY"     OP     SIR     WALTER     SCOTT. 

Dark  in  the  shade  of  the  mountains, 

From  a  valley  full  of  flowers, 
Rose  up,  in  the  light  of  the  setting  sun, 

St.  Mary's  chapel  towers. 

The  bell  of  the  old  gray  turret 

Wis  tolling  deep  and  slow, 
And  friars  were  telling  their  beads,  and  monks 

Chanting  their  hymns  below. 


138  POEMS    BY   ALICE   CAREY. 

But  the  breath  of  the  silver  censers, 
As  they  swung  in  the  twilight  dim, 

And  the  sacred  hush  as  the  beads  were  told, 
And  the  chant  of  the  solemn  hymn ; 

And  the  golden  light  of  the  sunset 
Might  bear  to  the  heart  no  joy, 

Of  one  whose  mantle  of  coarsest  serge 
Betokened  a  novice  boy. 

Pale  was  his  brow,  and  dreamy, 
And  his  bright  locks  yet  unshorn  : 

He  had  but  given  his  mother's  smile 
For  the  convent's  gloom  that  morn. 

0,  why  are  his  pale  hands  folded 
In  the  chill  of  the  cloister's  gloom  ? 

Why  loses  his  cheek  its  roundness, 
And  his  lip  its  rosy  bloom  ? 

Let  Mary  of  Avenel  answer, 
As  she  sits  in  the  twilight  dim, 

In  the  leafy  shade  of  her  garden  bower — 
Does  she  wait  for  the  convent  hymn  ? 

No,  her  young  heart  softly  trembles 

From  its  even  pulse  of  joy, 
As  she  hears  a  step,  but  'tis  not  the  step 

Of  St.  Mary's  Novice  Boy  ! 


HELYA.  139 


HELVA. 

Her  white  hands  full  of  mountain  flowers, 
Down  by  the  rough  rocks  and  the  sea, 

Helva,  the  raven-tressed,  for  hours, 
Hath  gazed  forth  earnestly. 

Unconscious  that  the  salt  spray  flecks 
The  ebon  beauty  of  her  hair — 

What  vision  is  it  she  expects, 
So  meekly  lingering  there  ? 

Is  it  to  see  the  sea-fog  lift 

From  the  broad  bases  of  the  hills, 

Or  the  red  moonlight's  golden  drift, 
That  her  soft  bosom  thrills  ? 

Or  yet  to  see  the  starry  hours 

Their  silver  network  round  her  throw, 
That  'neath  the  white  hands,  full  of  flowers, 

Her  heart  heaves  to  and  fro  ? 

Why  strains  so  far  the  aching  eye  ? 

Kind  nature  wears  to-night  no  frown, 
And  the  still  beauty  of  the  sky 

Keep-  the  mad  ocean  down. 


140  POEMS   BY   ALICE   CAREY. 

Why  are  those  damp  and  heavy  locks 
Put  back,  the  faintest  sound  to  win  ? 

Ah  !  where  the  beacon  lights  the  rocks, 
A  ship  is  riding  in  ! 

Who  comes  forth  to  the  vessel's  side, 
Leaning  upon  the  manly  arm 

Of  one  who  wraps  with  tender  pride 
The  mantle  round  her  form  ? 

Oh,  Helva,  watcher  of  lone  hours, 
May  God  in  mercy  give  thee  aid  ! 

Thy  cheek  is  whiter  than  thy  flowers — 
Thy  woman's  heart  betrayed  ! 


THE  TIME  TO  BE. 

I  sit  where  the  leaves  of  the  maple 
And  the  gnarled  and  the  knotted  gum 

Are  circling  and  drifting  around  me, 
And  think  of  the  time  to  come. 

For  the  human  heart  is  the  mirror 
Of  the  things  that  are  near  and  far ; 

Like  the  wave  that  reflects  in  its  bosom 
The  flower  and  the  distant  star. 

And  beautiful  to  my  vision 

Is  the  time  it  prophetically  sees, 


THE    TIME    TO    BE.  Ill 

As  was  once  to  the  monarch  of  Persia 
The  gem  of  the  Cyclades. 

As  change  is  the  order  of  Nature, 

And  beauty  springs  from  decay, 
So  in  its  destined  season 

The  false  for  the  true  makes  way. 

The  darkening  power  of  evil, 

And  discordant  jars  and  crime, 
Are  the  cry  preparing  the  wilderness 

For  the  flower  and  the  harvest-time. 

Though  doubtings  and  weak  misgivings 

May  rise  to  the  soul's  alarm, 
Like  the  ghosts  of  the  heretic  burners, 

In  the  province  of  bold  Reform. 

And  now  as  the  summer  is  fading, 

And  the  cold  clouds  full  of  rain, 
And  the  net,  in  the  fields  of  stubble 

And  the  briers,  is  spread  in  vain — 

I  catch,  through  the  mists  of  life's  river, 

A  glimpse  of  the  time  to  be, 
When  the  chain  from  the  bondman  rusted, 

Shall  leave  him  erect  and  free — 

On  the  solid  and  broad  foundation, 

A  common  humanity's  right, 
To  cover  his  branded  shoulder 

"With  the  garment  of  love  from  sight. 


142  POEMS    BY  ALICE   CAREY. 


ELOQUENCE. 

Likest  the  first  Apostle, 

Fearless  of  scoffs  he  stood, 
Preaching  Christ  and  the  resurrection 

To  the  eager  multitude. 

The  light  on  his  broad  clear  forehead 
Fell  not  from  the  gorgeous  pane, 

As  he  spoke  of  the  blessed  Jesus, 
Who  died,  and  is  risen  again. 

How  beautiful  on  the  mountains 
The  feet  of  the  righteous  are ; 

How  sweet  is  the  silver  singing 
Of  lips  that  are  used  to  prayer. 

Will  the  rain  of  the  dull,  cold  autumn 
Awaken  the  sleeping  flower  ? 

Or  the  heart  of  the  sinful  soften, 

Though  the  godless  preach  with  power? 

But  the  light  of  the  golden  summer 

Will  ripen  the  harvest  grain, 
And  words  that  are  fitly  spoken 

Will  meet  a  response  again. 


ELOQUENCE.  143 

And  the  hearts  of  a  thousand  bosoms 
Shrank  frightened  and  trembling  back, 

Like  a  fawn  in  a  heath  of  blossoms, 
With  the  hunters  on  its  track. 

For  they  heard,  as  the  full  tone  deepened 

To  eloquence  sublime, 
Echoes  of  muffled  footsteps 

In  the  corridors  of  crime  j 

And  saw  the  low-voiced  Tempter 

Thence  lure  the  weak  to  die, 
As  the  bird  in  narrowing  circles 

Goes  down  to  the  serpent's  eye. 

But  when  of  Heaven's  sweet  mercy, 

He  bade  them  not  despair ; 
Bright  through  the  vaulted  temple 

Floated  the  wings  of  prayer. 

As  home  I  journeyed  slowly 

From  the  multitude  apart, 
Messengers  good  and  holy 

Kept  knocking  at  my  heart. 

When  sleep  descended  brightly, 

I  heard  the  anthem's  roll, 
And  all  night  my  heart  beat  lightly 

To  the  music  in  my  soul. 


144  POEMS   BY   ALICE   CAREY. 


TO  ELMA. 

How  heavily  the  sea-waves  break  ! 

The  storm  wails  loud  and  deep; 
Wake,  sister,  from  thy  slumber  wake, 

For,  oh  !  I  cannot  sleep. 

My  head  is  resting  on  thine  arm, 
Thy  heart  beats  close  to  mine ) 

But,  oh  !  this  weary  night  of  storm — 
How  can  such  peace  be  thine  ? 

Thou  answerest  not — again  I  hear 
Thy  breathing,  calm  and  deep ; 

No  sorrow  hast  thou,  and  no  fear — 
I  wish  that  I  could  sleep  ! 

They  tell  of  warning  lights  that  gleam, 
And  ghosts  such  nights  that  glide, 

And  dreams — ay,  once  I  had  a  dream — 
'Tis  more  than  verified  ! 

Louder  against  the  flinty  sand 

I  hear  the  dashing  seas ; 
No  angel  holds  my  trembling  hand 

Such  fearful  nights  as  these. 


TO   FLORA.  145 

Why  strive  to  cheat  myself,  or  hark 

To  hear  the  tempest  laid  ? 
'Tis  not  the  storm,  and  not  the  dark, 

That  makes  my  heart  afraid  ! 

For  if  my  ear,  in  tempest  strife, 

Is  quickened  to  its  roll, 
'Tis  that  the  promise  of  my  life 

Is  broken  in  my  soul. 

Yet  speak  to  me !  and  lay  thy  hand 

Upon  my  aching  brow — 
I've  nothing  on  the  sea  or  land 

To  love  or  cling  to  now  ! 


TO   FLOKA. 


Away  with  regal  palaces 

And  diadems  of  gold  : 
There's  nothing  in  the  world  so  sweet 

As  love's  embracing  fold. 

I  care  not  if  the  sea  be  rough 

And  if  the  sky  be  dark, 
If  thou,  beloved  of  my  soul, 

Art  with  me  in  the  bark. 

13 


146  POEMS   BY   ALICE   CAREY. 

Blest  inspiration  of  my  song  ! 

I  would  not  leave  thy  side, 
To  wear  the  stars  of  royalty, 

And  be  a  monarch's  bride. 

May  thy  fond  arms  encircle  me 
As  time  goes  smoothly  by, 

And  may  thy  faithful  bosom  be 
My  pillow  when  I  die. 

The  time  to  come  with  flowers  we'll  sow 

As  all  the  past  has  been, 
And  though  our  cabin  may  be  low, 

The  angels  will  come  in. 

If  bitterness  our  cup  should  fill 

And  evil  angels  send, 
Oh  !  what  a  sweetener  of  the  ill 

To  know  we  have  a  friend. 

Of  Heaven  above  I  ask  but  this 

Of  happiness  conferred — 
One  heart  that  feels  diviner  bliss 

Whene'er  my  step  is  heard. 


MYRRHA.  147 


MYRRHA. 

Vm  thinking,  my  sweet  Myrrha, 
Of  that  happy  time  in  youth, 

When  all  the  world  appeared  like  thee, 
In  innocence  and  truth. 

Oh !  when  around  the  shining  hearth, 

At  night,  we  used  to  meet, 
There  was  music  in  the  treading 

Of  the  little  naked  feet, 

And  I  am  thinking,  Myrrha, 
Of  the  smiles  and  kindly  words, 

That  ever  lulled  us  to  our  sleep, 
And  called  us  with  the  birds. 

I  think,  until  it  almost  seems 
The  kiss  is  on  my  brow ; — 

Alas  !  'tis  only  in  my  dreams ; 
I  have  no  mother  now ! 

I  am  thinking  of  the  Sabbath, 
When,  alone  and  sad,  I  trod 

A  path  each  day  is  wearing  down 
More  deeply  in  the  sod. 

Sometimes,  I  have  been  happy  since, 

And  trust  I  yet  shall  be ; 
But  never,  sister  of  my  soul ! 

Have  I  forgotten  fthee. 


148  POEMS   BY  ALICE   CAREY. 


TO  MYRRHA. 

The  love  where  Death  has  set  his  seal, 
Nor  age  can  chill  nor  rival  steal, 
Nor  falsehood  disavow. — Byron. 

Yes,  the  living  cast  me  from  theni, 
As  the  rock  the  clasping  wave; 

Once  there  was  one  who  loved  me — 
She  is  buried  in  the  grave. 

In  the  play-haunts  of  my  childhood, 
She  was  always  by  my  side; 

Oh  !  she  loved  me  in  her  lifetime, 
And  she  loved  me  when  she  died, 

God  knoweth  my  dark  sorrow 
When  I  knew  that  all  was  o'er, 

And  called  her  every  lovely  name, 
But  she  could  speak  no  more. 

I  could  not,  dare  not,  look  upon 
The  strife,  the  parting  dread; 

But  my  heart  I  felt  was  breaking, 
And  I  knew  that  she  was  dead. 

They  told  me  she  was  passing 
Through  the  golden  gates  of  day, 


TO    THE    SPIRIT    OF    TRUTH.  149 

When  the  baud  that  meekly  clasped  my  neck 
Fell  heavily  away. 

I  forgot  the  harp  of  Gabriel, 

The  glory  of  the  crown — 
When  the  foldings  of  the  winding-sheet 

Had  wrapt  her  still  heart  down. 

Shall  I  gather  back  my  broken  hopes 

From  her  cold  sepulchre  ? 
No !  none  have  loved  me  in  their  lives 

Or  in  their  deaths  like  her. 


TO  THE  SPIRIT  OF  TRUTH. 

BRiGHT-winged  spirit  of  the  sky, 

Beautiful  and  holy, 
Pass  thou  not,  neglectful  by 

The  despised  and  lowly. 

Where  the  mourner  by  the  tomb 

Sits,  the  dark  unheeding, 
With  the  white  down  of  thy  plume 

Bind  the  heart  from  bleeding. 

Like  the  sweet  light  of  the  stars, 
Pierce  the  gloomiest  prison, 


150  POEMS   BY   ALICE   CAREY. 

Leaving  broken  bolts  and  bars 
Cerements  of  the  risen. 

Where  along  the  furrowed  soil 
Corn  and  rice  are  springing, 

Let  us  hear  the  child  of  toil 
At  his  labour  singing. 

Though  the. downy  lip  of  youth 
Whiten  with  vain  terror, 

With  thy  sacred  wand,  0  Truth  ! 
Smite  gray-bearded  Error. 

Right  in  Superstition's  frown 
Be  his  doom  allotted, 

And  to  lower  the  coffin  down, 
Hangman's  cords  be  knotted. 

Where  the  progeny  of  sin 
Hold  their  horrid  revels, 

In  the  Master's  name  go  in,  • 
And  rebuke  the  devils. 

Surely  the  "  good  time"  is  nigh 
For  thy  wide  diffusion; 

Else  G-od's  promise  is  a  lie, 
And  our  faith,  delusion. 


TO  .  151 


TO 


Haply  beneath  heaven's  equal  beams 

There  lies  some  green  and  peaceful  isle, 
Where,  gathering  up  my  broken  dreams, 

I  yet  may  smile,  or  seem  to  smile. 
Away,  false  hope,  nor  blind  my  eyes ; 

I  feel,  I  know  my  doom  of  ill ; 
Unbind  thy  web  of  hollow  lies, 

And  let  my  heart  bleed  as  it  will. 

I  know  that  I  am  changed — that  years 

Have  left  their  shadows  on  my  brow, 
And  the  dim  traces  of  some  tears — 

But  these  to  thee  are  nothing  now. 
I'm  sitting  on  the  mossy  stone, 

Where  we  have  talked  of  love  till  death, 
And  thinking,  but  alone,  alone, 

And  thou — ah !  who  has  broken  faith  ? 

I  will  not  tell  thee  not  to  go, 

Nor  ask  thee  yet  to  think  of  me ; 
My  doom  of  dark  and  hopeless  wo 

Has  been  too  much  entwined  with  thee. 
For  if  thou  seest,  from  me  apart, 

A  sunnier  path  than  both  have  known, 
I'll  fold  the  darkness  to  my  heart, 

And  sit,  as  now,  alone,  alone. 


152  POEMS   BY  ALICE   CAREY. 


THE   TWO   LOVERS. 

Singing  down  a  quiet  valley, 
Singing  to  herself  she  went, 
And,  with  wing  aslant,  the  zephyr 

To  her  cheek  with  kisses  leant. 

i 

Dainty,  with  the  golden  blossoms 
Of  the  mulberries'  silver  braid, 

Were  the  windings  of  the  valley 
Where  the  singing  maiden  strayed. 

Where  the  river  mist  was  climbing 
Thin  and  white  along  the  rocks, 

On  a  hollow  reed  sat  piping, 
Like  a  shepherd  to  his  flocks, 

One  whose  lip  was  scarcely  darkened 
With  the  dawn  of  manhood's  pride, 

With  his  earnest  eyes  bent  downward 
To  the  river's  voiceless  tide. 

Answering  to  his  pleading  music 
Smiled  a  lovelit,  girlish  face, 

Folded  by  the  placid  waters 
In  their  chilly,  cold  embrace. 


THE    TWO    LOVERS.  153 

Like  the  summer  sunshine  parted 

By  the  white  wing  of  a  dove, 
Like  the  mist  that  sweetly  trembles 

Kound  the  pensive  star  of  love; 

Were  the  pale  and  wavy  ringlets 

Drifting  on  the  pearly  tide, 
"While  the  music,  wilder,  deeper, 

On  the  hushed  air  rose  and  died. 

Treading  down  the  golden  blossoms 

Of  the  mulberries'  silver  braid, 
Struck  a  steed,  with  lordly  rider, 

Toward  the  half  enchanted  maid. 

Like  a  rose-cloud  from  the  sunset, 
Like  the  love-light  from  a  dream, 

Fled  the  wildering  shade  of  beauty 
From  the  bosom  of  the  stream. 

Haunted  by  the  cherub  shadow 

He  could  woo  not  from  the  wave, 
Day  by  day  the  boy  grew  sadder, 

And  went  pining  to  the  grave. 

Singing  down  the  quiet  valley, 

Singing  as  the  day  grows  dim, 
Walks  the  maiden,  but  her  visions 

Blend  not  with  a  thought  of  him  ! 


154  POEMS   BY   ALICE   CAREY. 


ABJURATION. 

Haunting  phantom,  I  abjure  thee  ! 

Thou  shalt  never  vex  me  more ; 
Though  the  past  was  sweet  as  summer, 

Better  far  to  look  before. 

Who  would  sit  in  memory's  chambers, 
Mantled  from  the  loving  light ; 

With  the  sea  of  life  before  them, 
Broad,  and  beautiful,  and  bright? 

Wherefore  in  the  port  of  sorrow 
Should  our  moorings  longer  be  ? 

Helmsman,  ho  !  heave  up  the  anchor  ! 
Now,  my  messmates,  for  the  sea ! 

Up,  my  chamois-footed  reefer! 

Let  the  canvas  be  unfurled — 
Moth  will  fret  away  the  garment 

Faster  than  the  wearing  world ! 

Though  our  bark  is  not  too  steady, 
And  our  compass  sometimes  errs, 

Never  let  the  sail  be  slackened — 
Storms  make  skilful  mariners : 


ABJURATION.  155 

True,  beneath  these  waves  of  beauty, 
Far  from  wind  and  tempest-frown, 

When  the  sky  was  full  of  sunshine 
Many  vessels  have  gone  down. 

Happiness  is  not  in  wooing 

Phantoms  to  the  vacant  breast ; 
But  in  earnest,  healthful  striving, 

And  in  blessing  we  are  blest. 

Are  we  ready  ?  are  we  freighted  ? 

Not  with  odours,  not  with  gold ; 
But  with  bright  hopes  for  the  future — 

"With  true  hearts  and  courage  bold  ! 

Downward  from  the  shore  of  sorrow 
Fresh  the  seaward  breezes  spring; 

And  our  flag  is  up  and  waving, 
Like  some  proud  bird's  open  wing. 

When  the  showers  of  evening  crimson 

Fall  like  roses  on  the  sea; 
Rocking  o'er  the  glad,  free  billows, 

Oh,  how  sweet  my  dreams  will  be ! 


156  POEMS   BY   ALICE   CAREY. 


OLD  STORIES. 

No  beautiful  star  will  twinkle 

To-night  through  my  window-pane, 

As  I  list  to  the  mournful  falling 
Of  the  leaves  and  the  autumn  rain. 

High  up  in  his  leafy  covert 
The  squirrel  a  shelter  hath; 

And  the  tall  grass  hides  the  rabbit, 
Asleep  in  the  churchyard  path. 

On  the  hills  is  a  voice  of  wailing 
For  the  pale  dead  flowers  again, 

That  sounds  like  the  heavy  trailing 
Of  robes  in  a  funeral  train. 

Oh,  if  there  were  one  who  loved  me — 
A  kindly  and  gray-haired  sire, 

To  sit  and  rehearse  old  stories 
To-night  by  my  cabin  fire  : 

The  winds  as  they  would  might  rattle 
The  boughs  of  the  ancient  trees — 

In  the  tale  of  a  stirring  battle 
My  heart  would  forget  all  these. 


OLD    STORIES.  157 

Or  if,  by  the  embers  dying, 

We  talked  of  the  past,  the  while, 
I  should  see  bright  spirits  flying 

From  the  pyramids  and  the  Xile. 

Echoes  from  harps  long  silent 

Would  troop  through  the  aisles  of  time; 
And  rest  on  the  soul  like  sunshine, 

If  we  talked  of  the  bards  sublime. 

But,  hark  !  did  a  phantom  call  me, 

Or  was  it  the  wind  went  by  ? 
Wild  are  my  thoughts  and  restless, 

But  they  have  no  power  to  fly. 

In  place  of  the  cricket  humming, 
And  the  moth  by  the  candle's  light, 

I  hear  but  the  deathwatch  drumming — 
Fve  heard  it  the  livelong  night. 

Oh  for  a  friend  who  loved  me — 

Oh  for  a  gray-haired  sire, 
To  sit  with  a  quaint  old  story 

To-night  by  my  cabin  fire. 


14 


158  POEMS   BY   ALICE   CAREY. 


SPECTRES. 

Once  more  the  shadows  darken 
Upon  life's  solemn  stream — 

Once  more  I'm  in  my  chamber 
To  ponder  and  to  dream. 

Down  in  the  mist-white  valley, 

Across  the  hills  afar, 
The  rosy  light  is  gleaming 

From  Love's  descending  star. 

I  hear  from  yonder  parlour 
A  prattler  cry,  "  He's  come  !" 

Oh,  there's  a  world  of  comfort — 
I  wish  /  had  a  home  ! 

All  last  night,  round  about  me 
The  lights  of  memory  streamed, 

And  my  heart  to  long-lost  music 
Kept  beating  as  I  dreamed. 

"We  live  with  spectres  haunted 
That  we  cannot  exorcise — 

A  pale  and  shadowy  army 
Between  us  and  the  skies. 


LUCIFER.  159 


Conjured  by  mortal  weakness, 
In  their  cerements  they  start 

From  the  lonesome  burial-places 
Of  the  dead  hopes  of  the  heart. 

They  will  meet  thee,  fellow-pilgrim, 
For  their  graves  are  everywhere, 

And  thou  canst  not  lay  them  better 
Than  by  labour  which  is  prayer. 


LUCIFER, 

Usurper  of  the  throne  of  God, 

From  heaven's  high  battlement  cast  down, 
What  spot  of  earth  hast  thou  not  trod, 

Wearing  rebellion  as  a  crown  ? 

Like  some  bright  meteor  of  the  air 

Streams  o'er  the  world  thy  robe  of  flame  ; 

Ruined,  fallen,  yet  as  angel  fair, 
I  breathe  my  curses  on  thy  name  ! 

The  broad  road  going  down  to  death, 

What  thousands  but  for  thee  would  quit, 

And  climb  to  the  green  hills  of  faith, 
From  the  black  ashes  of  the  pit. 


160  POEMS   BY   ALICE   CAREY. 

Once,  when  through  Mercy's  gates,  ajar, 
I  heard  salvation's  anthem  flow, 

Thy  fire-wing  led  me,  like  a  star, 
Back  to  the  wretched  gates  of  wo ! 

O,  Holy  Spirit,  cease  to  grieve 
That  slighted  offer  of  thy  grace  ; 

My  heart  is  breaking  to  receive 
The  beauty  of  thy  sweet  embrace. 

I  cannot,  will  not  let  thee  go, 

Has  been  my  cry — nor  shall  it  cease, 

Till  the  wild  billows  of  my  wo 

Shall  bear  me  to  the  shore  of  peace. 

Go,  lay  thy  forehead  in  hell's  coals, 
Proud  scorner  of  the  bended  knee, 

For  broken  faith  and  perjured  souls 
Charged  all  their  awful  guilt  to  thee. 

And  when  at  last  the  quick  and  dead 
Are  summoned  to  the  judgment  bar, 

If  there  shall  be  a  crime  more  dread 
Than  all  the  rest,  to  answer  for — 

Thine  is  it;  for  no  evil  hand, 

Save  that  which  opened  first  the  grave, 
Could  ever  sink  the  accursed  brand 

In  the  crouched  shoulder  of  the  slave. 


BE   ACTIVE.  161 


BE  ACTIVE. 

Thou  who  silently  art  weeping, 

Thou  of  faded  lip  and  brow, 
Golden  harvests  for  thy  reaping 

Wave  before  thee  even  now. 

Fortune  may  be  false  and  fickle — 

Should  you,  therefore,  pause  and  weep  ? 

Taking  in  thy  hand  the  sickle, 
Enter  in  the  field,  and  reap. 

Though  the  garden,  famed  Elysian, 
31  ay  be  shut  from  thee  by  fate, 

Thou  hast  yet  a  holier  mission 
Than  to  linger  at  the  gate. 

When  so  oft  the  rosiest  morning 
Slumbers  in  the  tempest's  arms, 

Should  the  cloud  of  dismal  warning 
Fill  the  soul  with  vague  alarms  : 

Brightest  visions  from  thy  pillow 

May  have  vanished,  still  thou'rt  blest, 

While  the  waves  of  time's  rough  billows 

Wash  the  shores  of  endless  rest. 
11* 


162  POEMS   BY  ALICE   CAREY. 

Should  the  powers  of  darkness  blind  thee, 
*        Should  their  whispers  fill  thy  heart, 
Say  thou,  Satan,  get  behind  me  ! 
And  the  tempter  will  depart. 

Then,  to  every  fortune  equal, 

Let  us  combat  to  the  last, 
That  life's  marches  in  the  sequel 

May  retrieve  the  wasted  past. 


DEATH'S   FERRYMAN. 

Boatman,  thrice  I've  called  thee  o'er, 
Waiting  on  life's  solemn  shore, 
Tracing,  in  the  silver  sand, 
Letters  till  thy  boat  should  land. 

Drifting  out  alone  with  thee, 
Toward  the  clime  I  cannot  see, 
Read  to  me  the  strange  device 
Graven  on  thy  wand  of  ice. 

Push  the  curls  of  golden  hue 
From  thy  eyes  of  starlit  dew, 
And  behold  me  where  I  stand, 
Beckoning  thy  boat  to  land. 


FERRYMAN.  103 


Where  the  river  mist,  so  pale, 
Trembles  like  a  bridal  veil, 
O'er  yon  lowly  drooping  tree, 
One  that  loves  me  waits  for  me. 

Hear,  sweet  boatman,  hear  my  call ! 
Last  year,  with  the  leaflet's  fall, 
Resting  her  pale  hand  in  mine, 
Crossed  she  in  that  boat  of  thine. 

When  the  com  shall  cease  to  grow, 
And  the  rye-field's  silver  flow 
At  the  reaper's  feet  is  laid, 
Crossing,  spake  the  gentle  maid : 

Dearest  love,  another  year 
Thou  shalt  meet  this  boatman  here — 
Tljf  white  fingers  of  despair 
Playing  with  his  golden  hair. 

From  this  silver-sanded  shore, 
Beckon  him  to  row  thee  o'er ; 
Where  yon  solemn  shadows  be, 
I  shall  wait  thee — come  and  see ! 

There !  the  white  sails  float  and  flow, 
One  in  heaven  and  one  below ; 
And  I  hear  a  low  voice  cry, 
Ferryman  of  Death  am  I. 


164  POEMS   BY   ALICE   CAREY. 


WATCHING. 


Thy  smile  is  sad,  Elella, 

Too  sad  for  thee  to  wear, 
For  scarcely  have  we  yet  untwined 

The  rosebuds  from  thy  hair. 

So,  dear  one,  hush  thy  sobbing, 
And  let  thy  tears  be  dried— 

Methinks  thou  shouldst  be  happier, 
Three  little  months  a  bride. 

Hark ;  how  the  winds  are  heaping 
The  snow-drifts  cold  and  white — 

The  clouds  like  spectres  cross  the  sky- 
Oh,  what  a  lonesome  night ! 

The  hour  grows  late  and  later, 
I  hear  the  midnight  chime  : 

Thy  heart's  fond  keeper,  where  is  he? 
Why  comes  he  not  ? — 'tis  time  ! 

Here  make  my  heart  thy  pillow. 

And,  if  the  hours  seem  long, 
I'll  while  them  with  a  legend  wild, 

Or  fragment  of  old  song — 


WATCHING.  1G5 

Or  read,  if  that  will  soothe  thee, 

Some  poet's  pleasant  rhymes  : 
Oh,  I  have  watched  and  waited  thus, 

I  cannot  tell  the  times  ! 

Hush,  hark  !  across  the  neighbouring  hills 

I  hear  the  watch-dog  bay — 
Stir  up  the  fire,  and  trim  the  lamp, 

I'm  sure  he's  on  the  way. 

Could  that  have  only  been  the  winds, 

So  like  a  footstep  near  ? 
No,  smile,  Elella,  smile  again, 

He's  coming  home — he's  here  ! 


16G  POEMS   BY   ALICE   CAREY. 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  A  CHILD. 

Vain  it  were  to  say  that  night 

Folds  away  the  morrow — 
Oh,  you  cannot  see  the  light 

Through  this  aching  sorrow  ! 

Beauty  from  your  lives  is  borne, 

Brother,  sister,  weeping ; 
But  the  cherub  boy  you  mourn 

Is  not  dead,  but  sleeping. 

Folded  are  the  dimpled  arms 

From  your  soft  caressing ; 
Yet  our  God  in  darker  forms 

Sendeth  down  his  blessing. 

Death,  a  breeze  from  heaven  astray, 
Still,  with  wing  the  fleetest, 

Drifts  the  lovely  flowers  away, 
Where  hope  clings  the  sweetest. 

Strong  to  change,  but  not  destroy, 

While  the  paley  winglets 
Veil  the  forehead  of  the  boy 

Bright  with  golden  ringlets. 


CRADLE    SONG.  107 

Faith,  though  dumb  at  the  great  loss 
"Which  hath  made  you  weepers, 

Closer,  closer  clasps  the  Cross 
Down  among  the  sleepers. 

And  though  wild  your  anguish  be, 
And  your  hearts  all  broken, 
"  Suffer  them  to  come  to  me," 
Hath  been  sweetly  spoken. 


CRADLE  SOXG. 

WkABY  of  the  mother's  part  ? 

My  sweet  baby,  never ! 
I  will  rock  thee  on  my  heart 

Ever,  yes,  for  ever ! 

Loveliest  of  lovely  things 
Pure  as  the  evangel ! — 

0,  in  every  thing  but  wings 
Is  my  babe  an  angel ! 

Blue  as  heaven  is  are  the  eyes, 
'Neath  the  lids  so  waxen, 

And  the  gold  of  morning  lies 
In  the  ringlets  flaxen. 


168  POEMS   BY  ALICE   CAREY. 

Fragrant  shrub,  or  tropic  tree, 
Never  yielded  blossom 

Half  so  lovely,  sweet,  as  thee, 
Sleeping  on  my  bosom  ! 

When  thy  little  dimpled  cheek 
Mine  is  softly  pressing, 

Not  a  wish  have  I  to  seek 
Any  other  blessing. 

Art  thou,  little  baby,  mine  ? 

Earlier  love  effacing : 
One  whose  smile  is  like  to  thine, 

Chides  this  long  embracing. 

No  !  as  drops  of  light  and  dew 

Glorify  each  other, 
So  shall  we,  life  journey  through 

Father,  child,  and  mother. 


6EK0.  \  *')'-) 


SEKO. 

Bright  dames  had  kept  the  knight 

Long  at  the  wassail ; 
Therefore  his  courser  white 

Flew  toward  his  castle. 

Deep  moaned  the  ocean  flood, 
Howled  the  wind  hoarser — 

Right  through  the  ringing  wood 
Struck  the  gay  courser. 

Hoof-strokes  had  trod  the  flowers 
Where  the  rein  slackened; 

Fierce  flames  had  left  the  towers 
Ruined  and  blackened. 

One  look  of  mute  despair 

Gave  he  lost  splendour; 
One  cry  rose  wildly  there, 

Wildly,  but  tender. 

Up  from  the  dismal  rocks 

Rose  the  sad  echo — 

Mali  of  the  golden  locks, 

Dewy-eyed  Seko ! 
u 


170 


POEMS   BY   ALICE   CAREY. 

Once  more  with  smothered  pain 
Writhed  his  lip  slightly, 

Then  'neath  a  tightened  rein 
Flew  the  steed  lightly. 

Hushed  be  thy  stormy  wrath, 

Desolate  bosom ; 
Low  in  thy  mountain  path 

Lies  the  lost  blossom. 

Pale  uncaressing  lips 

Wait  for  the  lover, 
Pale  as  the  plume  that  dips 

Softly  above  her. 

Bright  o'er  the  icy  rocks 

Of  the  roused  echo 
Lay  the  long  golden  locks 

Of  the  dead  Seko. 

Drifting  like  silver  rain 

Down  o'er  his  master 
Went  the  white  courser's  mane— 

Woful  disaster ! 


THE  DESERTED  FYLGIA.  171 


THE   DESERTED   FYLGIA.* 

Like  a  meteor,  radiant,  streaming, 

Seems  her  hair  to  me, 
And  thou  bear'st  her  feet  like  lilies, 

Dark  and  chilly  sea  ! 

Wannish  fires  enclasp  her  bosom, 
Like  the  Northern  Light, 

And  like  icicles  her  fingers 
Glisten,  locked  and  white. 

On  the  blue  and  icy  ocean, 

As  a  stony  floor, 
Toward  thy  boat,  0  dying  Viking, 

Walks  she  evermore ! 

Like  a  star  on  morning's  forehead, 

When  the  intense  air, 
Sweeping  o'er  the  face  of  heaven, 

Lays  its  far  depths  bare — - 


*  "  A  Scandinavian  warrior,  having  embraced  Christianity,  and  being 
attacked  by  disease  which  he  thought  mortal,  was  naturally  anxious  that  a 
spirit  who  had  accompanied  him  through  his-  pagan  career  should  not 
attend  him  into  that  other  world,  where  her  society  might  involve  him  in 
fllMjjCimillUi  consequences.  The  persevering  Fylgia,  however,  in  the  shape 
of  a  fair  maideD,  walk»d  on  the  wave<  of  the  va.  after  her  Viking's  ship.'' 


172 


POEMS    BY    ALICE    CAREY. 

Is  the  beauty  of  her  smiling, 
Pale  and  cold  and  clear — 

What,  0  fearful,  dying  Viking, 
Doth  the  maiden  here  ? 

Hath  the  wretched  hell-maid,  Belsta, 

Ever  crossed  her  way, 
Weirdly  driving  herds  of  cattle, 

Cattle  dark  and  gray  ? 

Hath  she  seen  the  maids  of  Skulda 

Draw  from  Urda's  well 
Water  where  the  awful  snake-king 

Gnaws  the  roots  of  hell  ? 

Hath  she  seen  the  harts  that  ever 

Haunt  the  ashen  tree, 
Keeping  all  its  buds  from  blooming  ? 

Viking,  answer  me ! 

Moaningly  his  white  lips  tremble, 

But  no  voice  replies — 
Starlight  in  the  blue  waves  frozen, 

Seem  his  closing  eyes. 

Woman's  lot  is  thine,  0  Fylgia, 

Mourning  broken  faith, 
And  her  mighty  love  outlasting 

Chance  and  change  and  death  ! 


music.  173 


MUSIC. 

There  is  music,  deep  and  solemn, 

Floating  through  the  vaulted  arch 
When,  in  many  an  angry  column, 

Clouds  take  up  their  stormy  march 
O'er  the  ocean  billows,  heaping 

Mountains  on  the  sloping  sands, 
There  are  ever  wildly  sweeping 

Shapeless  and  invisible  hands. 

Echoes  full  of  truth  and  feeling 

From  the  olden  bards  sublime, 
Are,  like  spirits,  brightly  stealing 

Through  the  broken  walls  of  time. 
The  universe,  that  glorious  palace, 

Thrills  and  trembles  as  they  float, 
Like  the  little  blossom's  chalice 

With  the  humming  of  the  mote. 

On  the  air,  as  birds  in  meadows — 

Sweet  embodiments  of  song — 
Leave  their  bright  fantastic  shadows 

Trailing  goldenly  along. 
Till,  aside  our  armour  laying, 

We  like  prisoners  depart, 
In  the  soul  is  music  playing 

To  the  beating  of  the  heart. 


174  TOEMS   BY   ALICE   CAREY. 


ORPHAN'S  SONG. 

On  the  white  cliffs  of  the  ocean 

The  sea-bird  rests  her  wing : 
For  the  meek  and  patient  camel 

Of  the  desert,  there's  a  spring  : 
But  the  shore  hath  rocks  as  steady 

Whereon  weary  feet  may  stand, 
And  fountains  flow  more  sweetly 

From  the  meadow  than  the  sand. 

We  are  orphans,  poor  and  homeless, 

And  the  tempest  whistles  loud; 
But  the  stars  of  heaven  are  hiding 

In  the  meshes  of  the  cloud. 
With  the  sleet  our  locks  are  stiffened, 

And  our  path  is  white  with  snow, 
And  we  leave  the  print  of  naked  feet 

Behind  us  as  we  go. 

But  we've  honest  hearts,  my  brothers, 

And  sinewy  hands  beside, 
And  our  mother's  benediction 

That  she  gave  us  when  she  died ; 
And  whatever  may  befall  us, 

We  will  never  bow  our  souls 
But  to  Him  who  kept  the  Hebrews 

In  the  furnace  of  hot  coals. 


BRIDGES.  175 


BRIDGES. 


My  friend,  thou  art  mournful  and  heavy, 
That  life  is  a  transient  breath — 

Disheartened,  it  may  be,  with  hearing 
The  moan  of  the  river  of  death. 

Up  !  work  out  the  fate  of  a  hero, 
Or  perish  at  least  in  the  strife ; 

Even  we  may  be  builders  of  bridges 
For  the  passage  of  souls  into  Life. 

As  the  wave  of  existence  is  drifting 
.  And  rushing  to  darkness  and  death, 
Let  us  hew,  with  the  sword  of  the  spirit, 
White  blocks  from  the  deep  mine  of  faith. 

The  rainbow  shall  o'erarch  our  bridges, 

Olives  the  pathway  shall  pave, 
And  the  beautiful  stone  of  the  corner 

Rest  on  the  floor  of  the  grave. 

Like  bright  birds  under  the  rafters 
Shall  hover  the  good  deeds  we  do, 

And  the  fair  pillars  shine  with  the  beauty 
Of  lives  to  humanity  true. 

My  friend,  wilt  thou  lend  me  thy  coun 
And  then,  if  thou  wilt,  we  will  Btrive 

O'er  the  river  of  death  to  build  bridges, 
That  souls  may  o'erpass  it  and  live. 


176  POEMS    BY   ALICE    CAREY. 


BOOK  OF  LIGHT. 

Gentlest  sister,  I  am  weary — 

Bring,  oh,  bring  the  Book  of  Light ! 

There  are  shadows  dark  and  dreary 
Settling  on  my  heart  to-night. 

That  alone  can  soothe  my  sadness, 
That  alone  can  dry  my  tears, 

When  I  see  no  spot  of  gladness 
Down  the  dusky  vale  of  years. 

Well  I  know  that  I  inherit 

All  that  sometimes  makes  me  blest ; 
And  in  vain  I  ask  my  spirit 

Why  this  feeling  of  unrest. 

But  all  day  have  been  around  me 
Voices  that  would  not  be  still, 

And  the  twilight  shades  have  found  me 
Shrinking  from  a  nameless  ill. 

Seeing  not  despair's  swift  lightning — 
Hearing  not  the  thunders  roll, 

Hands  invisible  are  tightening 
Bands  of  sorrow  on  my  soul. 

Out  beneath  the  jewelled  arches 

Let  us  bivouac  to-night, 
And  to  soothe  days'  dusty  marches 

Bring,  oh,  bring  the  Book  of  Light ! 


THE    CHILD   OF    NATURE.  177 


THE  CHILD  OF  NATURE. 

Haste,  haste,  my  gentle  sisters, 
Break  away  from  slumber's  chain, 

The  light  of  morn  streams  redly 
Through  my  chamber  lattice-pane  ! 

I  hear  the  wild  birds  calling 

With  their  sweet  throats  all  in  tune- 
'Tis  the  goldenest  of  the  mornings 

Of  the  merry  month  of  June  ! 

On  the  horizon's  blue  edges 
The  sweet  light  dimly  burns, 

And  the  summer  dew  is  dropping 
From  the  roses'  crimson  urns. 

Leaving  toilet  and  mirror — 
"With  the  sunshine  on  the  hill 

I  will  let  the  breezes  dally 
"With  my  tresses  as  they  will ! 

The  spray-wreaths  of  the  fountains 
In  the  light  of  such  a  morn, 

Must  be  like  the  snowy  fleeces 
Of  the  lambs  among  the  corn. 

Why  should  the  heart  be  folded 

In  the  mantle  of  dim  care, 
In  so  glorious  a  temple 

r  ? 


178  POEMS   BY   ALICE    CAREY. 


WHERE  REST  THE  DEAD  ? 

Answer,  thou  star  whose  brightening  ray 
Foretells  the  gathering  shades  of  night, 

If  so  'tis  given  thee,  where  are  they 
Who  pass  from  mortal  sight  ? 

"We  know  in  some  green  isle  of  bliss, 
Where  clouds  and  tempests  never  roll, 

There  is  a  holier  home  than  this — 
A  triumph  for  the  soul ! 

The  early  birds,  the  summer  flowers, 
The  tearful  spring-time  has  restored ; 

But  when  shall  they  again  be  ours 
O'er  whom  our  love  was  poured  ? 

We  look  to  see  the  spirit's  track, 
And  hear  the  stir  of  wings  above, 

And  call,  but  win  no  answer  back, 
Nor  token  of  their  love. 

While  kindred  smiles  and  tones  of  mirth 
Are  mingling  brightly  as  the  waves, 

There  still  rests  darkly  on  our  hearth 
A  shadow  from  the  graves. 

Answer,  thou  star  whose  brightening  ray 
Foretells  the  gathering  shades  of  night, 

If  so  'tis  given  thee,  where  are  they 
Who  pass  from  mortal  sight? 


POEMS  BY  PHCEBE  CAEEY. 


POEMS  BY  PHCEBE  CAEEY. 


A  STORY. 

"While  silently  our  vessel  glides, 

To-night,  along  the  Adrian  seas, 
And  while  the  lightly-heaving  tides 

Are  scarcely  rippled  by  the  breeze — 
Thou,  who,  with  cheek  .of  beauty  pale, 

Seem'st  o'er  some  hidden  grief  to  pine, 
If  thou  wilt  listen  to  a  tale 

Of  sorrow,  it  may  lighten  thine. 
'Twaa  told  me,  sadly  choked  with  tears; 

My  eyes,  it  may  be,  too,  were  wet ; 
For,  through  the  shadowy  lapse  of  years, 

My  memory  keeps  the  record  yet. 
And  he  who  told  it  long  ago, 

Though  scarcely  passed  his  manhood's  prime, 
He  seemed  as  one  whose  heart  with  wo 

Was  seared  and  blighted  ere  its  time. 
And  as  he  told  his  story  o'er, 

Long  vanished  years  came  back  to  me  ; 
For  he  had  crossed  my  path  before, 

Dp  m  the  land  and  on  the  - 

Ml 


182  POEMS    BY   PH(EBE    CAREY. 

When  first  by  chance  I  saw  his  form, 

;Twas  on  the  raging  waves  at  night, 
And  if  at  all  he  saw  the  storm, 

He  recked  not  of  its  angry  might. 
For  while  the  dark  and  troubled  skies 

Rung  with  accents  of  despair, 
He  never  raised  his  tearful  eyes, 

Nor  lifted  up  his  voice  in  prayer. 
Once,  thirsting  for  the  cooling  well, 

Beneath  a  fierce  and  burning  sun, 
And  listening  to  the  camel's  bell, 

That  music  of  the  desert  lone, 
We  reached  a  spot  whose  fountain  made 

An  Eden  in  that  barren  land ; 
And  there,  beneath  the  palm-tree's  shade, 

We  saw  the  lonely  stranger  stand. 
And  once,  when  twilight  closed  the  flowers, 

I  marked  him  on  dark  Jura's  steep, 
And  twice  amid  thy  sacred  bowers, 

Gethsemane,  I  saw  him  weep. 

But  when  I  saw  the  mourner  last, 

And  heard  the  story  of  his  woes, 
'Twas  where  the  solemn  cypress  cast 

Its  shadow  o'er  man's  last  repose. 
The  sun  had  faded  from  the  sky, 

With  all  his  bright  and  glowing  bars, 
And  solemn  clouds  were  gliding  by, 

In  spectral  silence  o'er  the  stars. 
And  there,  beside  a  grassy  mound, 

In  agony  for  words  too  deep, 


A   STORY.  l^o 

And  eyes  bent  sadly  on  the  ground, 

I  saw  him  clasp  his  hands  and  weep. 
Though  I  had  seen  him  on  the  sea 

Unmoved,  when  all  beside  were  pale, 
And  weeping  in  Gethsemane, 

I  never  asked  nor  knew  his  tale. 
But  now,  beside  the  tomb,  at  last, 

By  kindly  looks  and  words,  I  sought 
To  learn  the  story  of  the  past, 

And  win  him  from  his  troubled  thought. 
With  lips  all  breathlessly  apart, 

He  listened  to  each  soothing  word ; 
The  chord  was  touched  within  his  heart, — 

The  long  untroubled  fount  was  stirred. 

u  Companioned  only  by  the  dead, 

So  many  years  I've  lived  alone, 
I  hardly  thought,"  he  sadly  said, 

"To  hear  again  a  pitying  tone. 
But,  stranger,  friend,  thy  words  are  kind, 

And  since  thou  fain  wouldst  learn  my  grief, 
It  may  be  that  my  heart  will  find, 

In  utterance  of  its  woes,  relief. 
Life's  brightest  scenes  will  I  recall, 

And  those  where  shade  and  sunshine  blend, 
And,  if  my  lips  can  speak  it  all, 

I'll  tell  it  even  to  the  end. 
My  childhood !  it  were  more  than  vain 

To  tell  thee  that  was  glad  as  fleet  j 
"While  innocence  and  youth  remain, 

Thou  knowest  that  life's  cup  is  sweet. 


184  POEMS   BY   PH(EBE    CAREY. 

But  when  the  soul  of  manhood  beamed, 

In  after  years,  upon  my  brow, — 
(I  know  how  darkly  it  is  seamed 

With  scars  of  guilt  and  sorrow  now,) — 
When,  with  the  summer  stars  above, 

And  dew-drops  shining  in  the  vale, 
I  told  the  story  of  my  love 

To  one  who  did  not  scorn  the  tale; 
And  when,  in  happiness  and  pride, 

Such  as  I  never  knew  before, 
I  bore  her  to  my  home  a  bride, 

The  measure  of  my  bliss  ran  o'er. 
Oh,  in  that  bower  of  Eden  blest, 

I  fain  would  linger  with  my  song; 
It  irks  me  so  to  tell  the  rest — 

The  serpent  did  not  spare  it  long. 

"It  was  the  eve  of  such  a  day 

As  on  creation  dawned  of  old, 
And  all  along  the  heavenly  way 

The  stars  had  set  their  lamps  of  gold. 
That  night  I  stood  amid  the  throng 

Where  banquet  flowers  were  sweetly  strown, 
Where  wine  was  poured  with  mirth  and  song, 

And  where  the  smile  of  beauty  shone. 
When  lost  in  pleasure's  maze,  and  when 

My  heart  to  reason's  voice  was  steeled, 
I  tasted  of  the  wine-cup,  then — 

I  tasted,  and  my  doom  was  scaled  ! 
That  night  the  moments  passed  more  fleet 

Than  with  my  bride  upon  the  hills ; 


A    STORY.  185 

That  night  I  drank  a  draught  more  sweet 

Than  water  from  the  living  rills. 
It  is  a  harder  task  to  win 

The  feet,  at  first,  from  right  astray; 
Yet  if  but  once  we  yield  to  sin, 

How  easy  is  the  downward  way  ! 
Oh,  if  the  spirit  can  be  won 

In  evil  ways  to  enter  in, 
That  first  false  step  may  lead  us  on 

Through  all  the  labyrinths  of  sin  : 
And  I  resisted  not  the  power 

That  drew  me  first  towards  the  bowl, 
"While  firmer  every  day  and  hour 

The  chains  were  fastened  in  my  soul. 
I  saw  hope's  sunny  fountain  fail 

In  her  young  heart  who  loved  me  so, 
As  day  by  day,  her  cheek  grew  pale 

With  vigils  and  with  tears  of  wo. 

11  Oh,  if  a  kind  and  pitying  word, 

If  tones  so  sweet  as  thine  have  been, 
My  erring  spirit  could  have  heard, 

They  might  have  saved  me,  even  then. 
But  no ;  they  named  with  scorn  my  name, 

And  viewed  me  with  reproachful  eyes ; 
For  all  who  saw  my  guilt  and  shame 

But  looked  upon  me  to  despise. 
And  so  I  left  my  home  and  hearth, 

For  haunts  of  wickedness  and  sin, 
And  sought,  in  wine  and  stronger  mirth, 

To  hush  the  voice  of  God  within. 

16* 


186  POEMS   BY   PHCEBE   CAREY. 

I  have  no  record  in  my  heart 

Of  how  my  days  and  weeks  went  by, 
Save  shadowy  images  that  start 

Like  spectres  still  before  mine  eye. 
As  something  indistinct  and  dim 

Of  sable  hearse  and  funeral  pall, 
Of  trailing  robes  and  mournful  hymn, 

My  memory  keeps — and  that  is  all ! 
But  when,  as  from  a  horrid  dream, 

I  woke,  disturbed  by  nameless  fears, 
I  sought  beside  the  mountain  stream 

My  home  so  dear  in  earlier  years. 
;Twas  desolate — I  called  my  bride, 

And  listened,  but  no  answer  came ; 
I  made  the  hills  and  valleys  wide 

Ke-echo  vainly  with  her  name  ! 
And  when  I  heard  a  step  draw  near, 

And  met  a  stranger's  wondering  gaze, 
I  asked,  in  tones  of  doubt  and  fear, 

For  that  sweet  friend  of  earlier  days. 
And  then  I  followed  where  he  led  j 

And  as  he  left  that  singing  stream, 
I  glided  near  him  with  a  tread 

Like  guilty  spirits  in  a  dream  : 
He  brought  me  to  this  quiet  ground, 

The  last  repose  of  wo  and  care, 
And,  pointing  to  that  grassy  mound, 

He  told  me  that  my  bride  was  there  ! 

"I've  been,  for  hopeless  years  since  then, 
A  wanderer  on  the  land  and  sea, 


A  8T0&Y.  187 

And  little  loved  the  homes  of  men, 

Or  in  their  busy  haunts  to  be  ; 
And  should  not  now  have  turned  to  tread 

This  darkest  scene  of  all  my  woes, 
But  something  in  my  heart  has  said 

My  life  is  hastening  to  its  close. 
And  now  I  have  no  wish  below, 

And  no  request  for  man  to  keep, 
If  thou,  who  know'st  my  tale  of  wo, 

Wilt  lay  me  by  my  bride  to  sleep.7' 

He  paused,  and,  blinded  by  his  tears, 

Bowed  down  with  sorrow  dark  and  deep, 
The  hoarded  agony  of  years 

Broke  forth,  and  then  he  ceased  to  weep : 
But  when  he  raised  his  eyes  again, 

I  saw,  what  was  unseen  till  now, 
That  death,  in  characters  too  plain, 

Was  written  on  that  pallid  brow. 

Three  little  days;  and  then  we  laid 
That  wreck  of  manhood  and  of  pride 

Beneath  the  gloomy  cypress  shade, 
To  slumber  with  his  stricken  bride. 


188  POEMS    BY    riKEBE   CAREY. 


THE  LOVERS. 

Thou  marvellest  why  so  oft  her  eyes 

Fill  with  the  heavy  dew  of  tears — 
Have  I  not  told  thee  that  there  lies 

A  shadow  darkly  on  her  years  ? 
Life  was  to  her  one  sunny  whole, 

Made  up  of  visions  fancy  wove, 
Till  that  the  waters  of  her  soul 

Were  troubled  by  the  touch  of  love. 
I  knew  when  first  the  sudden  pause 

Upon  her  spirit's  sunshine  fell : 
Alas  !  I  little  guessed  the  cause, 

'Twas  hidden  in  her  heart  so  well. 
Our  lives  since  early  infancy 

Had  flowed  as  rills  together  flow, 
And  now  to  hide  her  thought  from  me 

Was  bitterer  than  to  tell  its  wo. 

One  night,  when  clouds  with  anguish  black 

A  tempest  in  her  bosom  woke, 
She  crushed  the  bitter  tear-drops  back, 

And  told  me  that  her  heart  was  broke  ! 
I  learned  it  when  the  autumn  hours 

With  wailing  winds  around  us  sighed — 
'Twas  summer  when  her  love's  young  flowers 

Burst  into  glorious  life  and  died : 


THE   LOVERS.  189 

No — now  I  can  remember  well, 

'Twas  the  soft  month  of  sun  and  shower; 
A  thousand  times  I've  heard  her  tell 

The  season,  and  the  very  hour : 
For  now,  whene'er  the  tear-drops  start, 

As  if  to  ease  its  throbbing  pain, 
She  leans  her  head  upon  my  heart 

And  tells  the  very  tale  again. 

'Tis  something  of  a  moon,  that  beamed 

Upon  her  weak  and  trembling  form, 
And  one  beside,  on  whom  she  leaned, 

That  scarce  had  stronger  heart  or  arm — 
Of  souls  united  there  until 

Death  the  last  ties  of  life  shall  part, 
And  a  fond  kiss  whose  rapturous  thrill 

Still  vibrates  softly  in  her  heart. 

It  is  an  era  strange,  yet  sweet, 

Which  every  woman's  thought  has  known, 
When  first  her  young  heart  learns  to  beat 

To  the  soft  music  of  a  tone ; 
That  era  when  she  first  begins 

To  know  what  love  alone  can  teach, 
That  there  are  hidden  depths  within 

Which  friendship  never  yet  could  reach  : 
And  all  earth  has  of  bitter  wo 

U  light  Jj«;side  her  hopeless  doom 
Who  Beefl  love's  first  sweet  star  bel<.»w 

Fade  slowly  till  it  sets  in  gloom. 


190  POEMS   BY   PHCEBE   CAREY. 

There  may  be  heavier  grief  to  move 
The  heart  that  mourns  an  idol  dead, 

But  one  who  weeps  a  living  love 
Has  surely  little  left  to  dread. 

I  cannot  tell  why  love  so  true 

As  theirs  should  only  end  in  gloom; 
Some  mystery  that  I  never  knew 

Was  woven  darkly  with  their  doom. 
I  only  know  their  dream  was  vain, 

And  that  they  woke  to  find  it  past, 
And  when  by  chance  they  met  again, 

It  was  not  as  they  parted  last. 
His  was  not  faith  that  lightly  dies, 

For  truth  and  love  as  clearly  shone 
In  the  blue  heaven  of  his  soft  eyes, 

As  the  dark  midnight  of  her  own : 
And  therefore  ,Heaven  alone  can  tell 

What  are  his  living  visions  now ; 
But  hers— the  eye  can  read  too  well 

The  language  written  on  her  brow. 

In  the  soft  twilight,  dim  and  sweet, 

Once,  watching  by  the  lattice  pane, 
She  listened  for  his  coming  feet, 

For  whom  she  never  looked  in  vain  : 
Then  hope  shone  brightly  on  her  brow, 

That  had  not  learned  its  after  fears — < 
Alas  !  she  cannot  sit  there  now, 

But  that  her  dark  eyes  fill  with  tears ! 


OUR   HOMESTEAD.  191 

And  every  woodland  pathway  dim, 

And  bower  of  roses  cool  and  sweet, 
That  speak  of  vanished  days  and  him, 

Are  spots  forbidden  to  her  feet. 
No  thought  within  her  bosom  stirs, 

But  wakes  some  feeling  dark  and  dread  : 
f  God  keep  thee  from  a  doom  like  hers — 

Of  living  when  the  hopes  are  dead  ! 


OUR  HOMESTEAD. 


Our  old  brown  homestead  reared  its  walls, 

From  the  wayside  dust  aloof, 
Where  the  apple  boughs  could  almost  cast 

Their  fruitage  on  its  roof : 
And  the  cherry-tree  so  near  it  grew, 

That  when  awake  I've  lain, 
In  the  lonesome  nights  I've  heard  the  limbs, 

As  they  creaked  against  the  pane  : 
And  those  orchard  trees,  oh,  those  orchard  trees ! 

I've  seen  my  little  brothers  rocked 
In  their  tops  by  the  summer  breeze. 

The  sweet-brier  under  the  window  sill, 
Which  the  early  birds  made  glad, 

And  the  damask  rose  by  the  garden  fence 
W<re  all  the  flowers  we  had. 


192  POEMS   BY   PHOEBE   CAREY. 

I've  looked  at  many  a  flower  since  then, 

Exotics  rich  and  rare, 
That  to  other  eyes  were  lovelier, 
But  not  to  me  so  fair  j 
For  those  roses  bright,  oh,  those  roses  bright ! 
I  have  twined  them  with  my  sister's  locks, 
That  are  laid  in  the  dust  from  sight ! 

We  had  a  well,  a  deep  old  well, 

Where  the  spring  was  never  dry, 
And  the  cool  drops  down  from  the  mossy  stones 

Were  falling  constantly  : 
And  there  never  was  water  half  so  sweet 

As  that  in  my  little  cup, 
Drawn  up  to  the  curb  by  the  rude  old  sweep, 

Which  my  father's  hand  set  up ; 
And  that  deep  old  well,  oh,  that  deep  old  well  ! 

I  remember  yet  the  plashing  sound 
Of  the  bucket  as  it  fell. 

Our  homestead  had  an  ample  hearth, 

Where  at  night  we  loved  to  meet  j 
There  my  mother's  voice  was  always  kind, 

And  her  smile  was  always  sweet ; 
And  there  I've  sat  on  my  father's  knee, 

And  watched  his  thoughtful  brow, 
With  my  childish  hand  in  his  raven  hair — 

That  hair  is  silver  now  ! 
But  that  broad  hearth's  light,  oh,  that  broad  hearth's  light ! 

And  my  father's  look,  and  my  mother's  smile, 
They  are  in  my  heart  to-night. 


THE   FOLLOWERS    OF   CHRIST.  193 


THE  FOLLOWERS  OF  CHRIST. 

What  were  thy  teachings  ?  Thou  who  hadst  not  where 

In  all  this  weary  earth  to  lay  thy  head ; 
Thou  who  wert  made  the  sins  of  men  to  bear, 

And  break  with  publicans  thy  daily  bread ! 
Turning  from  Nazareth,  the  despised,  aside, 

And  dwelling  in  the  cities  by  the  sea, 
What  were  thy  words  to  those  who  sat  and  dried 

Their  nets  upon  the  rocks  of  Galilee  ? 

Didst  thou  not  teach  thy  followers  here  below, 

Patience,  long-suffering,  charity,  and  love; 
To  be  forgiving,  and  to  anger  slow, 

And  perfect,  like  our  blessed  Lord  above  ? 
And  who  were  they,  the  called  and  chosen  then, 

Through  all  the  world,  teaching  thy  truth,  to  go  ? 
Were  they  the  rulers,  and  the  chiefest  men, 

The  teachers  in  the  synagogue  ?     Not  so  ! 
Makers  of  tents,  and  fishers  by  the  sea, 

These  only  left  their  all  to  follow  thee. 

And  even  of  the  twelve  whom  thou  didst  name 

Apostles  of  thy  holy  word  to  be, 
One  was  a  devil ;  and  the  one  who  came 

With  loudest  boasts  of  faith  and  constancy, 


194  POEMS   BY  PHOEBE   CAREY. 

He  was  the  first  thy  warning  who  forgot, 
And  said,  with  curses,  that  he  knew  thee  not ! 
Yet  were  there  some  who  in  thy  sorrows  were 

To  thee  even  as  a  brother  and  a  friend, 
And  women,  seeking  out  the  sepulchre, 

Were  true  and  faithful  even  to  the  end  : 
And  some  there  were  who  kept  the  living  faith 
Through  persecution  even  unto  death. 

But,  Saviour,  since  that  dark  and  awful  day 

When  the  dread  temple's  vail  was  rent  in  twain, 
And  while  the  noontide  brightness  fled  away, 

The  gaping  earth  gave  up  her  dead  again ; 
Tracing  the  many  generations  down, 

Who  have  professed  to  love  thy  holy  ways, 
Through  the  long  centuries  of  the  world's  renown, 

And  through  the  terrors  of  her  darker  days — 
Where  are  thy  followers,  and  what  deeds  of  love 
Their  deep  devotion  to  thy  precepts  prove  ? 

Turn  to  the  time  when  o'er  the  green  hills  came 
.  Peter  the  Hermit  from  the  cloister's  gloom, 
Telling  his  followers  in  the  Saviour's  name 

To  arm  and  battle  for  the  sacred  tomb ; 
Not  with  the  Christian  armour — perfect  faith, 

And  love  which  purifies  the  soul  from  dross — 
But  holding  in  one  hand  the  sword  of  death, 

And  in  the  other  lifting  up  the  cross, 
He  roused  the  sleeping  nations  up  to  feel 
All  the  blind  ardour  of  unholy  zeal  ! 


THE   FOLLOWERS   01"   CHRIST.  195 

AYith  the  bright  banner  of  the  cross  unfurled, 

And  chanting  sacred  hymns,  they  marched,  and  yet 
They  made  a  pandemonium  of  the  world, 

More  dark  than  that  where  fallen  angels  met : 
The  singing  of  their  bugles  could  not  drown 
The  bitter  curses  of  the  hunted  down  ! 
Richard,  the  lion-hearted,  brave  in  war, 

Tancred,  and  Godfrey,  of  the  fearless  band, 
Though  earthly  fame  had  spread  their  names  afar, 

What  were  they  but  the  scourges  of  the  land  ? 
And  worse  than  these  were  men,  whose  touch  would  be 
Pollution,  vowed  to  lives  of  sanctity ! 

And  in  thy  name  did  men  in  other  days 

Construct  the  Inquisition's  gloomy  cell, 
And  kindle  persecution  to  a  blaze, 

Likest  of  all  things  to  the  fires  of  hell ! 
Ridley  and  Latimer — I  hear  their  song 

In  calling  up  each  martyr's  glorious  name, 
And  Cranmer,  with  the  praises  on  his  tongue 

"When  his  red  hand  dropped  down  amid  the  flame  ! 
Merciful  God  !  and  have  these  things  been  done, 
And  in  the  name  of  thy  most  holy  Son  ? 

Turning  from  other  lands  grown  old  in  crime, 
To  this,  where  Freedom's  root  is  deeply  set, 

Surely  no  stain  upon  its  folds  sublime 
Dims  the  escutcheon  of  our  glory  yet  ? 


Hush !  came  there  not  a  sound  upon  the  air 
Like  captives  moaning  from  their  native  sho 


196  POEMS   BY   PHCEBE   CAREY. 

Woman's  deep  wail  of  passionate  despair 

For  home  and  kindred  seen  on  earth  no  more  ! 

Yes,  standing  in  the  market-place,  I  see 

Our  weaker  brethren  coldly  bought  and  sold, 

To  be  in  hopeless,  dull  captivity, 

Driven  forth  to  toil  like  cattle  from  the  fold. 

And  hark !  the  lash,  and  the  despairing  cry 

Of  the  strong  man  in  perilous  agony  ! 

And  near  me  I  can  hear  the  heavy  sound 

Of  the  dull  hammer  borne  upon  the  air : 
Is  a  new  city  rising  from  the  ground  ? 

What  hath  the  artisan  constructed  there  ? 
'Tis  not  a  palace,  nor  an  humble  shed; 

'Tis  not  a  holy  temple  reared  by  hands  : 
No ! — lifting  up  its  dark  and  bloody  head 

Right  in  the  face  of  Heaven,  the  scaffold  stands ; 
And  men,  regardless  of  "  Thou  shalt  not  kill," 

That  plainest  lesson  in  the  Book  of  Light, 
Even  from  the  very  altars  tell  us  still 

That  evil  sanctioned  by  the  law  is  right ! 
And  preach  in  tones  of  eloquence  sublime, 
To  teach  mankind  that  murder  is  not  crime  ! 

And  is  there  nothing  to  redeem  mankind  ? 

No  heart  that  keeps  the  love  of  God  within  ? 
Is  the  whole  world  degraded,  weak,  and  blind, 

And  darkened  by  the  leprous  scales  of  sin  ? 
No,  we  will  hope  that  some  in  meekness  sweet, 
Still  sit,  with  trusting  Mary,  at  thy  feet. 


THE  FOLLOWERS   OF   CHRIST.  197 

For  there  are  men  of  God,  who  faithful  stand 

On  the  far  ramparts  of  our  Zion's  wall, 
Planting  the  cross  of  Jesus  in  some  land 

That  never  listened  to  salvation's  call. 
And  there  are  some,  led  by  philanthropy, 

Men  of  the  feeling  heart  and  daring  mind, 
Who  fain  would  set  the  hopeless  captive  free, 

And  raise  the  weak  and  fallen  of  mankind. 
And  there  are  many  in  life's  humblest  way, 

Who  tread  like  angels  on  a  path  of  light, 
Who  warn  the  sinful  when  they  go  astray, 

And  point  the  erring  to  the  way  of  right ; 
And  the  meek  beauty  of  such  lives  will  teach 
More  than  the  eloquence  of  man  can  preach. 

And,  blessed  Saviour  !  by  thy  life  of  trial, 
And  by  thy  death,  to  free  the  world  from  sin, 

And  by  the  hope  that  man,  though  weak  and  vile, 
Hath  something  of  divinity  within — 

Still  will  we  trust,  though  sin  and  crime  be  met, 

To  see  thy  holy  precepts  triumph  yet ! 


17* 


198  POEMS  BY  PHCEBE  CAREY. 


SONNETS. 


I. 


Down  in  the  cold  and  noiseless  wave  of  death, 

Oh,  pure  and  beautiful  lost  one  that  thou  art, 
Clasping  the  anchor  of  eternal  faith 

Closer  and  closer  to  thy  trusting  heart — 
Didst  thou  fade  from  us,  while  our  tearful  eyes, 

Here  on  the  shore  of  sad  mortality, 
Gazed  sorrowing  on  that  form  that  ne'er  shall  rise 

Till  sounds  the  music  of  eternity. 
Then  shalt  thou  take  the  Saviour's  hand  in  thine, 

Not  with  his  faith  who  held  it  falteringly, 
But  in  the  trustfulness  of  love  divine, 

And  with  him  walk  the  waters  of  the  sea ; 
Till,  casting  anchor,  all  thy  toils  shall  cease 
In  the  still  haven  of  eternal  peace. 


II. 


The  beautiful  measure  of  thy  trusting  love 
Survives  the  answering  faith  it  knew  of  old; 

Over  the  heart  thy  pleadings  cannot  move, 
Slowly  but  sure  the  closing  wave  hath  rolled : 


SONNETS.  199 

The  unpitying  eyes  thou  meet'st  burn  not  more  bright, 

Though  now  thy  lips  with  eloquent  fervour  speak, 
And  all  thy  passionate  kisses  may  not  light 

The  crimson  fires  in  the  unchanging  cheek. 
How  shall  I  give  thee  solace  ?     Had  she  died, 

With  love's  sweet  sunlight  shining  in  her  eyes, 
Then  might'st  thou,  casting  selfish  grief  aside, 

Patiently  wait  reunion  in  the  skies : 
For  better  than  the  living  faith  estranged, 
The  love  that  goes  down  to  the  dead  unchanged. 


in. 


Look  once  again  !  yet  mourn  in  holy  t^st, 

Near  the  still  Presence  softly,  softly  tread, 
Before  the  dimness  of  the  closing  dust 

Soils  the  yet  lingering  beauty  of  the  dead. 
Look  on  the  silent  lip,  whence  oft  hath  flowed 

Such  living  truth  as  man  hath  seldom  taught, 
And  the  sereneness  of  that  brow  that  glowed 

Earnest  in  life  with  pure  and  eloquent  thought ! 
How  silver-white  has  grown  his  reverend  hair, 

Serving  his  Master  in  the  way  of  truth  : 
For  him,  an  age  of  active  love  and  prayer 

Fulfilled  the  beautiful  promise  of  his  youth ; 
And  what  a  triumph-hour  is  death  to  those 
Faithful  in  life,  yet  happy  in  its  el 


200  POEMS   BY   PIICEBE   CAREY. 


IV. 


Let  me  not  feel  thy  pitying  finger's  grasp, 

Though  dewy  cool  their  pressure  still  may  be, 
Since  they  have  learned  to  thrill  within  the  clasp 

Of  passionate  love  that  trembled  once  for  me  ! 
Sweep  back  the  beautiful  tresses  from  thy  brow, 

Nor  let  them,  falling  o'er  me,  blend  with  mine ; 
Dark  as  the  glorious  midnight  in  their  flow, — 

My  locks  are  paler  in  their  fall  than  thine ! 
In  thy  deep  eyes  are  lit  the  fires  divine, 

That  made  the  heart  its  early  love  forget; 
So  much  they  mock  the  softer  light  of  mine 

I  cannot  calmly  meet  their  glances  yet ; 
Therefore,  until  this  bitterness  shall  cease, 
Leave  me.  that  I  may  win  my  heart  to  peace  ! 


SYMPATHY.  201 


SYMPATHY. 


Li  the  same  beaten  channel  still  have  run 
The  blessed  streams  of  human  sympathy; 

And  though  I  know  this  ever  hath  been  done, 
The  why  and  wherefore  I  could  never  see  : 

"Why  some  such  sorrow  for  their  griefs  have  won, 
And  some,  unpitied,  bear  their  misery, 

Are  mysteries,  which  thinking. o'er  and  o'er 

Has  left  me  nothing  wiser  than  before. 


■- 


"What  bitter  tears  of  agony  have  flowed 
O'er  the  sad  pages  of  some  old  romance  ! 

How  Beauty's  cheek  beneath  those  drops  has  glowed, 
That  dimmed  the  sparkling  lustre  of  her  glance, 

And  on  some  love-sick  maiden  is  bestowed, 
Or  some  rejected,  hapless  knight,  perchance, 

All  her  deep  sympathies,  until  her  moans 

Stifle  the  nearer  sound  of  living  groans  ! 

Oh,  the  deep  sorrow  for  their  sufferings  felt, 

"Where  is  found  something  "  better  days"  to  prove ! 

What  heart  above  their  downfall  will  not  melt, 
Who  in  a  "  higher  circle"  once  could  move  ! 

For  such,  mankind  have  ever  freely  dealt 
Out  the  full  measure  of  their  pitying  love, 

Because  they  witnessed,  in  their  wretchedii 

Their  friends  grow  fewer,  and  their  fortune- 


202  POEMS    BY   PH(EB£   CAREY. 

But  for  some  humble  peasant  girl's  distress, 
Some  real  being  left  to  stem  the  tide, 

Who  saw  her  young  heart's  wealth  of  tenderness 
Betrayed,  and  trampled  on,  and  flung  aside — 

Who  seeks  her  out,  to  make  her  sorrows  less  ? 
What  noble  lady  o'er  her  tale  hath  cried  ? 

None  !  for  the  records  of  such  humble  grief 

Obtain  not  human  pity — scarce  belief. 

And  as  for  their  distress,  who  from  the  first 
Have  had  no  fortune  and  no  friends  to  fail — 

Those  who  in  poverty  were  born  and  nursed — 
For  such,  by  men,  are  placed  without  the  pale 

Of  sympathy, — since  they  are  deemed  the  worst 
Who  are  the  humblest,  and  if  Want  assail 

And  bring  them  harder  toil,  'tis  only  said, 

u  They  have  been  used  to  labour  for  their  bread  !" 

Oh,  the  unknown,  unpitied  thousands  found 
Huddled  together,  hid  from  human  sight 

By  fell  disease  or  gnawing  famine,  bound 
To  some  dim,  crowded  garret,  day  and  night, 

Or  in  unwholesome  cellars  underground, 
With  scarce  a  breath  of  air,  or  ray  of  light ! 

Hunger,  and  rags,  and  labour  ill  repaid — 

These  are  the  things  that  ask  our  tears  and  aid. 

And  these  ought  not  to  be ;  it  is  not  well 
Here  in  this  land  of  Christian  liberty, 

That  honest  worth  in  hopeless  want  should  dwell, 
Unaided  by  our  care  and  sympathy ; 


MEMORIES.  203 

And  is  it  not  a  burning  shame  to  tell 

We  have  no  means  to  check  such  misery, 
When  wealth  from  out  our  treasury  freely  flows, 
To  wage  a  deadly  warfare  with  our  foes  ! 

It  is  all  wrong ;  yet  men  begin  to  deem 
The  days  of  darkest  gloom  are  nearly  done ; 

A  something,  like  the  first  bright  golden  beam 
That  heralds  in  the  coming  of  the  dawn, 

Breaks  on  the  sight.     Oh,  if  it  be  no  dream, 
How  shall  we  haste  that  blessed  era  on  ! 

For  there  is  need  that  on  men's  hearts  should  fall 

A  spirit  that  shall  sympathize  with  all. 


MEMORIES. 

"  She  loved  me,  but  she  left  me." 

Memories  on  memories  !  to  my  soul  again 
There  come  such  dreams  of  vanished  love  and  bliss, 

That  my  wrung  heart,  though  long  inured  to  pain, 
Sinks  with  the  fulness  of  its  wretchedness. 


n 


Thou  dearer  far  than  all  the  world  beside  ! 

Thou  who  didst  listen  to  my  love's  first  vow  ! 
Once  I  had  fondly  hoped  to  call  thee  bride — 

Is  the  dream  over  ?  comes  the  awakening  now  ? 
And  is  this  hour  of  wretchedness  and  tears 
The  only  guerdon  for  my  wasted  years? 


204  POEMS    BY   PH(EBE   CAREY. 

And  did  I  love  thee ;  when  by  stealth  we  met 

In  the  sweet  evenings  of  that  summer-time, 
Whose  pleasant  memory  lingers  with  me  yet, 

As  the  remembrance  of  a  better  clime 
Might  haunt  a  fallen  angel.     And  oh  !  thou, 

Thou  who  didst  turn  away  and  seek  to  bind 
Thy  heart  from  breaking,  thou  hast  felt  ere  now 

A  heart  like  thine  o'ermastereth  the  mind  ; 
Affection's  power  is  stronger  than  thy  will; 
Ah  !  thou  didst  love  me,  and  thou  lovest  me  still. 

My  heart  could  never  yet  be  taught  to  move 

With  the  calm  even  pulses  that  it  should, 
Turning  away  from  those  that  it  should  love, 

And  loving  whom  it  should  not ;  it  hath  wooed 
Beauty  forbidden — I  may  not  forget — 

And  thou,  oh  !  thou  canst  never  cease  to  feel; 
But  time,  which  hath  not  changed  affection,  yet 

Hath  taught  at  least  one  lesson — to  conceal ; 
So  none,  but  thou,  who  see  my  smiles  shall  know 
The  silent  bleeding  of  the  heart  below. 


MORALIZINGS.  205 


MORALIZINGS. 


Hark  to  the  triumph  for  a  victory  won, 

Shaking  the  solid  earth  whereon  we  stand  ! 
"What  noble  action  hath  the  Nation  done, 

That  thus  rejoicing  echoes  through  the  land? 
Hath  she  beheld  life's  inequality — 

How,  still,  her  stronger  sons  the  weak  oppress, 
And,  in  the  spirit  of  philanthropy, 

Made  the  deep  sum  of  human  anguish  less  ? 
Or  hath  she  risen  up,  at  last,  to  free 
The  hopeless  slave  from  his  captivity  ? 

No,  not  for  these  the  shout  is  heard  to-night 

Waking  its  echoes  in  each  vale  and  glen, 
Not  that  the  precepts  of  the  Lord  of  Light 

Have  found  a  dwelling  in  the  hearts  of  men ; 
'Tis  that  a  battle  hath  been  fought  and  won, 

That  the  deep  cannon's  note  is  heard  afar, 
Telling  us  of  the  bloody  conflict  done, 

That  Victory  hovers  o'er  our  ranks  in  war, 
And  that  her  soldiery  their  triumph  sing 
In  the  broad  shadow  of  her  starry  wing. 

And  war  is  here  !     Impatient  for  the  fight, 

Our  Nation  in  her  majesty  arose, 
Even  as  the  restless  lion  in  his  might 

Up  from  the  swelling  of  the  Jordan  goes, 


206  POEMS    BY    PHGEBE    CAREY. 

And,  with  a  trampling  noise  that  shook  each  hill, 
On  to  the  conflict  madly  hath  she  rushed, 

Vowing  to  falter  not,  nor  yield,  until 

The  life  from  out  a  Nation's  heart  is  crushed; 

Until  her  hapless  sons  are  made  to  feel 

The  bloody  vengeance  of  her  iron  heel ! 

And  what  will  be  our  gain,  though  we  return 

Proudly  victorious  from  each  battle  plain  ? 
A  weakened  Nation  will  be  left  to  mourn 

Her  bravest  heroes  in  the  conflict  slain  ; 
Her  treasury  drained;  our  broad  and  goodly  land 

Filled  with  the  orphan  and  the  widowed  wife ; 
A  soldiery  corrupted  to  disband, 

Unfit  for  useful  toil  or  virtuous  life ; 
And  a  long  train  of  evils  yet  to  be 
Darkly  entailed  upon  posterity  ! 

And  this  is  glory !     This  is  what  hath  been 

To  ages  back  the  proudest  theme  of  song, 
And,  dazzled  by  its  glare,  man  has  not  seen 

Beneath  its  pageantry  the  deadly  wrong. 
Deeming  it  fame  to  tread  where  heroes  trod, 

In  his  career  he  has  not  paused,  or  known 
That  all  are  children  of  the  selfsame  God, 

And  that  our  brother's  interest  is  our  own; 
For  man  that  hardest  lesson  has  to  learn, 
Still  to  forgive,  and  good  for  ill  return. 

But  oh !  for  all  will  come  that  solemn  hour 
When  memory  calls  to  mind  each  deed  of  sin, 


DREAMING    OF    HEAVEN.  207 

And  the  world's  hollow  praise  can  have  no  power 
To  still  the  voice  of  conscious  guilt  within. 

And  grant,  0  Lord  of  Love,  that  it  may  be 
My  lot,  when  on  the  brink  of  death  I  press, 

To  think  of  some  slight  act  of  charity, 

Some  pang  of  human  wretchedness  made  less, 

So,  that  in  numbering  o'er  life's  deeds  again, 

I  then  may  deem  I  have  not  lived  in  vain  ! 


DREAMING    OF   HEAVEN. 

I  sit  where  the  shadows  of  twilight  steal  o'er  me, 
"While  the  wild  birds  are  warbling  their  last  fitful  hymn, 

And  I  think  of  the  loved  who  have  entered  before  me 
That  dwelling  whose  glory  shall  never  grow  dim. 

For  ever  the  land  of  the  spirits  seems  nearer, 

When  twilight  steals  over  the  earth's  quiet  breast, 

And  the  harps  of  the  angels  sound  sweeter  and  clearer, 
What  time  the  last  day -beams  go  out  in  the  w< 

Oh  !  if  all  my  dreams  were  as  bright  and  elysian 
As  those  which  the  eve  to  my  spirit  still  brings, 

I  could  sit  here  for  ever  to  woo  the  sweet  vision, 
And  dream  about  heaven  and  heavenly  thi: 

For  I  long  to  be  up  where  the  seraphim  gather 
With  the  ransomed  of  Zion  whom  Jesofl  haa  bl 

And  where,  in  the  smile  of  our  heavenly  Father, 
Our  purified  spirits  for  ever  shall  ; 


208  POEMS   BY   PHOEBE    CAREY. 


MORNING  THOUGHTS. 

Crossing  the  east  with  gold  and  crimson  bars, 

Comes  the  imperial  King  of  day  and  light, 
And,  shaken  by  his  tread,  the  burning  stars 

Drop  from  the  regal  diadem  of  night. 
Surely  the  dawn  was  not  more  fair  than  this 

When  Eden's  roses  in  fresh  beauty  burst, 
And  morning,  blushing  at  her  loveliness, 

Looked  down  upon  the  young  creation  first : 
When  all  below  was  innocent,  and  when 
The  angels  walked  in  Paradise  with  man. 

How  equally  the  gifts  of  God  come  down 

To  all  the  creatures  which  his  hand  has  made; 
The  beams  that  wake  the  children  of  renown, 

Fall  softly  on  the  peasant  in  the  glade. 
The  dawn  that  calls  the  eagle  up  to  fly 

From  her  proud  eyrie  to  the  mountain's  height, 
Visits  the  lowly  lark  as  smilingly, 

When  from  the  vale  she  takes  her  homeward  flight : 
Morning  and  life  and  sunshine,  these  are  things 
That  are  not  meant  to  be  the  wealth  of  kings ! 

Freedom  at  least  from  homeless  poverty, 

A  soul  unbowed  by  fetters  or  by  pain, 
One  heart  whose  faith  has  still  been  true  to  me, 

These  things  are  mine,  and  why  should  I  complain  ? 


MORNING   THOUGHTS.  200 

Complain  !  when  God  has  been  so  good  to  me, 
And  when  his  blessings  with  my  days  increase, 

(living  for  every  day  of  misery 

A  recompense  of  tranquil  days  of  peace  : 

Even  as  the  morning  with  her  smiles  and  light 

Is  over-paynient  for  the  weary  night. 


RESOLVES. 

I  have  said  I  would  not  meet  him;  have  I  said  the 

words  in  vain  ? 
Sunset  burns  along  the  hill-tops,  and  I'm  waiting  here 

again. 
But  my  promise  is  not  broken,  though  I  stand  where 

once  we  met; 
When  I  hear  his  coming  footsteps,  I  can  fly  him  even  yet. 

We  have  stood  here  oft  when  evening  deepened  slowly 

o'er  the  plain, 
But  I  must  not,  dare  not,  meet  him  in  the  shadows  here 

again; 
For  I  could  not  turn  away  and  leave  that  pleading  look 

and  tone, 
And  the  sorrow  of  his  parting  would  be  bitter  as  my  own. 

In  the  dim  and  distant  ether  the  first  star  is  shining 

through, 
And  another  and  another  tremble  softly  in  the  blue : 


210  POEMS   BY  PHCEBE   CAREY. 

Should  I  linger  but  one  moment  in  the  shadows  where 

I  stand, 
I  shall  see  the  vine-leaves  parted,  with  a  quick  impatient 

hand. 

But  I  will  not  wait  his  coming !  he  will  surely  come 

once  more ; 
Though  I  said  I  would  not  meet  him,  I  have  told  him 

so  before ; 
And  he  knows  the  stars  of  evening  see  me  standing  here 

again — 
Oh,  he  surely  will  not  leave  me  now  to  watch  and  wait 

in  vain ! 

'Tis  the  hour,  the  time  of  meeting !  in  one  moment 

'twill  be  past; 
And  last  night  he  stood  beside  me ;  was  that  blessed 

time  the  last  ? 
I  could  better  bear  my  sorrow,  could  I  live  that  parting 

o'er; 
Oh,  I  wish  I  had  not  told  him  that  I  would  not  come 

once  more  ! 

Could  that  have  been  the  night-wind  moved  the  branches 

thus  apart  ? 
Did  I  hear  a  coming  footstep,  or  the  beating  of  my 

heart  ? 
No !  I  hear  him,  I  can  see  him,  and  my  weak  resolves 

are  vain ; 
I  will  fly,  but  to  his  bosom,  and  to  leave  it  not  again ! 


THE    MARINER'S   BRIDE.  211 


THE   MARINER'S   BRIDE. 

O'er  the  dark  waters  now  my  bounding  bark 

May  bear  me  onward  wheresoe'er  it  will : 
I  care  not  though  the  angry  sky  be  dark, 

Light  of  my  being  !  thou  art  with  me  still. 
Yes,  let  the  heaving  billows  lash  the  deck, 

And  the  red  lightning  tremble  on  the  sea ; 
So  that  thy  faithful  arms  are  round  my  neck, 

31}-  heart  will  never  tremble ; — for  with  thee 
I  know  my  soul  within  would  still  be  brave 
If  every  gaping  billow  showed  a  grave. 

Once  I  had  feared  the  raging  of  the  sea, 

When  the  wild  tempest  in  its  fury  burst ; 
But,  bride  of  beauty  !  standing  thus  with  thee, 

The  angry  elements  may  do  their  worst. 
And  should  our  vessel  founder  on  a  rock, 

Or  cast  us  on  some  desert  shore  to  die, 
Unshrinkingly  my  soul  will  meet  the  shock, 

If  thou  with  that  inspiring  brow  art  nigh  : 
For,  folding  thee,  my  gentle  bride,  to  sleep, 

Closer,  and  closer,  to  this  fainting  breast, 
We  should  go  down  as  calmly  to  the  deep 

As  a  young  infant  to  its  cradle-rest. 
And  though  the  water-wraith  should  stir  the  sea, 

And  the  wild  tempest  move  the  waves  above, 


212  POEMS    BY    PHCEBE    CAREY. 

Securely  peaceful  would  my  slumber  be 

With  thee,  my  stricken  bride  of  youth  and  love ; 
For  thou  wouldst  cheer  the  darkness  of  the  grave, 
As  the  bright  sea-star  lights  the  ocean  cave  ! 


THE   PRISONER'S   LAST  NIGHT. 

Tpie  last  red  gold  had  melted  from  the  sky, 

Where  the  sweet  sunset  lingered  soft  and  warm, 

A  starry  night  was  gathering  silently 

The  jewelled  mantle  round  her  regal  form; 

While  the  invisible  fingers  of  the  breeze 

Shook  the  young  blossoms  lightly  from  the  trees. 

Yet  were  there  breaking  hearts  beneath  the  stars, 
Though  the  hushed  earth  lay  smiling  in  the  light. 

And  the  dull  fetters  and  the  prison  bars 
Saw  bitter  tears  of  agony  that  night, 

And  heard  such  burning  words  of  love  and  truth 

As  wring  the  life-drops  from  the  heart  of  youth. 

For  he,  whom  men  relentless  doomed  to  die, 
Parted  with  one  who  loved  him  till  the  last ; 

With  many  a  vow  of  faith  and  constancy 

The  long,  long  watches  of  the  night  were  passed ; 

Till,  heavily  and  slow,  the  prison  door 

Swung  back,  and  told  them  that  their  hour  was  o'er. 


THE   PRISONER'S   LAST   NIGHT.  213 

'Twas  his  last  night  on  earth  !  and  G-od  alone 
Can  tell  the  anguish  of  that  stricken  one, 

Fettered  in  darkness  to  the  dungeon  stone, 
And  doomed  to  perish  with  the  rising  sun ; 

And  she,  whose  faith  through  all  was  vainly  true, 

Her  heart  was  broken — and  she  perished  too ! 

And  will  this  win  an  erring  brother  back 

To  the  sweet  paths  of  pleasantness  and  peace  ? 

u  While  crimes  are  punished  but  by  crime  more  black," 
Will  sin,  and  wickedness,  and  sorrow  cease  ? 

No  !  crime  will  never  cease  to  scourge  the  land, 

So  long  as  blood  is  on  her  ruler's  hand  ! 

And  oh  !  how  long  will  hearts  in  sin  and  pride 
Reject  His  blessed  precepts,  who  of  yore 

Taught  men  forgiveness  on  the  mountain  side, 
And  spoke  of  love  and  mercy  by  the  shore  ? 

How  long  will  power,  with  such  despotic  sway, 

Trample  unfriended  weakness  in  its  way  ? 

Hasten,  0  Lord  of  Light,  that  glorious  time, 

When  man  no  more  shall  spurn  thy  wise  command, 

Filling  the  earth  with  wretchedness  and  crime, 
And  making  guilt  a  plague-spot  on  the  land ; 

Hasten  the  time,  that  blood  no  more  shall  cry 

Unceasingly  for  vengeance  to  the  sky  ! 


214  POEMS   BY  PHCEBE   CAREY. 


SONG-  OF  THE  HEART. 

They  may  tell  for  ever  of  worlds  of  bloom 
Beyond  the  skies  and  beyond  the  tomb  j 
Of  the  sweet  repose,  and  the  rapture  there, 
That  are  not  found  in  a  world  of  care ; 
But  not  to  me  can  the  present  seem 
Like  a  foolish  tale  or  an  idle  dream. 

Oh,  I  know  that  the  bowers  of  heaven  are  fair, 
And  I  know  that  the  waters  of  life  are  there ; 
But  I  do  not  long  for  their  happy  flow, 
While  there  bursts  such  fountains  of  bliss  below ; 
And  I  would  not  leave,  for  the  rest  above, 
The  faithful  bosom  of  trusting  love  ! 

There  are  angels  here ;  they  are  seen  the  while 
In  each  love-lit  brow  and  each  gentle  smile ; 
There  are  seraph  voices,  that  meet  the  ear 
In  the  kindly  tone  and  the  word  of  cheer ; 
And  light,  such  light  as  they  have  above, 
Beams  on  us  here,  from  the  eyes  of  love. 

Yet,  when  it  cometh  my  time  to  die, 
I  would  turn  from  this  bright  world  willingly ; 
Though,  even  then,  would  the  thoughts  of  this 
Tinge  every  dream  of  that  land  of  bliss ; 


MAN   BELIEVES   THE    STRONG.  215 

And  I  fain  would  lean  on  the  loved  for  aid, 
Nor  walk  alone  through  the  vale  and  shade. 

And  if  'tis  mine,  till  life's  changes  end, 
To  keep  the  heart  of  one  faithful  friend, 
Whatever  the  trials  of  earth  may  be, — 
On  the  peaceful  shore,  or  the  restless  sea, 
In  a  palace  home,  or  the  wilderness, — 
There  is  heaven  for  me  in  a  world  like  this ! 


MAN  BELIEVES  THE  STRONG. 

Oh  !  in  this  world,  where  all  is  fair  and  bright, 
Save  human  wickedness  and  human  pride, 

Marring  what  else  were  lovely  to  the  sight, 
It  is  a  truth  that  may  not  be  denied, 

However  deeply  we  deplore  the  wrong, 

Man  hath  believed,  and  still  believes  the  strong. 

When  injured  and  defenceless  woman  stands, 
Haply  the  child  of  innocence  or  youth, 

And  lifts  to  heaven  her  pleading  voice  and  hands 
In  all  the  moving  eloquence  of  truth, 

Who  will  believe,  in  that  most  trying  hour, 

Her  words  who  is  not  strong  in  wealth  or  power? 


216  POEMS   BY   PIKEBE   CAREY. 

Or  let  the  slave,  of  all  on  earth  bereft, 
Stand  up  to  plead  before  a  human  bar ; 

And  though  the  fetters  and  the  lash  have  left 
Upon  his  limbs  the  deep-attesting  scar, 

Who  trusts  his  tale,  or  who  will  rise  to  save 

From  wrong  and  injury  the  outcast  slave  ? 

If  a  poor,  friendless  criminal  appear, — 

A  criminal  which  men  themselves  have  made, 

By  the  injustice  and  oppression  here, — 
Who  to  pronounce  him  "guilty"  is  afraid  ? 

But  who,  if  rank  or  wealth  were  doomed  thereby, 

Would  speak  that  final  word  as  fearlessly  ? 

Oh,  where  so  much  of  wrong  and  sorrow  are, 
There  must  be  need  of  an  unfaltering  trust 

In  His  all-seeing  watchfulness  and  care, 

Whose  ways  to  man  below  we  know  are  just; 

In  Him,  whose  love  has  numbered  every  tear 

Wrung  from  his  weak,  defenceless  creatures  here. 

And  there  is  need  of  earnest,  full  belief, 
And  patient  work,  to  bring  that  holier  day 

When  there  shall  be  redress  for  humblest  grief, 
And  equal  right  and  justice  shall  have  sway; 

And  we  will  strive,  in  trustfulness  sublime, 

Hoping  our  eyes  may  see  the  blessed  time ! 


THE   CHRISTIAN   WOMAN.  217 


THE  CHRISTIAN  WOMAN. 

Oh  !  beautiful  as  morning  in  those  hours 
When,  as  her  pathway  lies  along  the  hills, 

Her  golden  fingers  wake  the  dewy  flowers. 
And  softly  touch  the  waters  of  the  rills, 

Was  she  who  walked  more  faintly  day  by  day, 

Till  silently  she  perished  by  the  way. 

It  was  not  hers  to  know  that  perfect  heaven 
Of  passionate  love  returned  by  love  as  deep, 

Not  hers  to  sing  the  cradle-song  at  even, 
Watching  the  beauty  of  her  babe  asleep  ; 

"  Mother  and  brethren  " — these  she  had  not  known, 

Save  such  as  do  the  Father's  will  alone. 

Yet  found  she  something  still  for  which  to  live — 
Hearths  desolate,  where  angel-like  she  came  ; 

And  "  little  ones,"  to  whom  her  hand  could  give 
A  cup  of  water  in  her  Master's  name; 

And  breaking  hearts,  to  bind  away  from  death 

With  the  soft  hand  of  pitying  love  and  faith. 

She  never  won  the  voice  of  popular  praise, 
But,  counting  earthly  triumph  as  but  dross, 

Seeking  to  keep  her  Saviour's  perfect  ways, 
Bearing  in  the  still  path  his  blessed  cross, 

19 


218  POEMS   BY  PHCEBE   CAREY. 

She  made  her  life,  while  with  us  here  she  trod, 
A  consecration  to  the  will  of  God. 

And  she  hath  lived  and  laboured  not  in  vain — 
Through  the  deep  prison-cells  her  accents  thrill, 

And  the  sad  slave  leans  idly  on  his  chain, 
And  hears  the  music  of  her  singing  still ; 

While  little  children,  with  their  innocent  praise, 

Keep  freshly  in  men's  hearts  her  Christian  ways. 

And  what  a  beautiful  lesson  she  made  known — 
The  whiteness  of  her  soul  sin  could  not  dim ; 

Ready  to  lay  down  on  God's  altar-stone 
The  dearest  treasure  of  her  life  for  Him, 

Her  flame  of  sacrifice  never,  never  waned ; 

How  could  she  live  and  die  so  self- sustained  ? 

For  friends  supported  not  her  parting  soul, 

And  whispered  words  of  comfort,  kind  and  sweet, 

When  treading  onward  to  that  final  goal, 

Where  the  still  Bridegroom  waited  for  her  feet; 

Alone  she  walked,  yet  with  a  fearless  tread, 

Down  to  Death's  chamber  and  his  bridal  bed ! 


THE   HOMESICK   PEASANT.  219 


THE  HOMESICK  PEASANT. 

Oh  !  I  am  sick  of  cities ;  all  night  long 

Orchards  and  corn-fields  waved  before  my  sight, 

Till  the  quick  moving  of  the  restless  throng 
Broke  on  that  pleasant  vision  of  the  night 

"With  an  unwelcome  sound,  and  called  my  feet 

Back  from  the  meadows  to  the  crowded  street. 

I  grew  a  child  of  Nature  on  the  hills, 
Learning  no  lessons  from  the  lips  of  Art, 

And  the  restraint  of  cities  cramps  and  chills 
The  warm,  impulsive  feelings  of  my  heart ; 

Even  the  ceaseless  stir  and  motion  here 

Grates  with  a  jarring  sound  upon  my  ear. 

It  is  not  like  my  childhood :  from  the  trees, 

And  from  the  flowers  that  grew  beneath  my  feet, 

And  from  the  artless  whispers  of  the  breeze, 
I  never  learned  the  lessons  of  deceit ; 

They  never  taught  me  that  my  heart  should  hide 

Its  thoughts  and  feelings  with  a  mask  of  pride. 

And  therefore  with  the  morning  I  awake, 
To  feel  a  homesick  yearning  for  the  hills — 

A  thirst  no  water  on  the  earth  can  slake, 
Save  the  clear  gushing  of  my  native  rills  ; 


220  POEMS   BY  PH(EBE   CAREY. 

And  I  once  more  upon  their  banks  would  stand, 
Free  as  the  breezes  of  my  native  land. 

Give  me  a  sweet  home,  set  among  the  trees, 

With  friends  whose  words  are  ever  kind  and  true, 

And  books  whose  stories  should  instruct  and  please, 
When  round  the  quiet  hearth  the  household  drew ; 

For  in  their  pleasant  pages  I  can  find 

All  I  would  learn  of  cities  and  mankind. 


HOMES  FOR  ALL. 


Columbia,  fairest  nation  of  the  world, 
Sitting  in  queenly  beauty  in  the  west, 

With  all  thy  banners  round  about  thee  furled, 
Nursing  the  cherub  Peace  upon  thy  breast; 

Never  did  daughter  of  a  kingly  line 

Look  on  a  lovelier  heritage  than  thine ! 

Thou  hast  deep  forests  stretching  far  away, 
The  giant  growth  of  the  long  centuries, 

From  whose  dim  shadows  to  the  light  of  day 
Come  forth  the  mighty  rivers  toward  the  seas, 

To  walk  like  happy  lovers,  hand  in  hand, 

Down  through  the  green  vales  of  our  pleasant  land. 

Thou  hast  broad  prairies,  where  the  lovely  flowers 
Blossom  and  perish  with  the  changing  year  • 


HOMES    FOR    ALL. 


221 


Where  harvests  wave  not  through  the  summer  hours, 

Nor  with  the  autumn  ripen  in  the  ear ; 
And  beautiful  lakes  that  toss  their  milky  spray 
Where  the  strong  ship  hath  never  cleaved  its  way. 

And  yet  with  all  thy  broad  and  fertile  land, 
Where  hands  sow  not,  nor  gather  in  the  grain, 

Thy  children  come  and  round  about  thee  stand, 
Asking  the  blessing  of  a  home  in  vain, — 

Still  lingering,  but  with  feet  that  long  to  press 

Through  the  green  windings  of  the  wilderness. 

In  populous  cities  do  men  live  and  die, 

That  never  breathe  the  pure  and  liberal  air ; 

Down  where  the  damp  and  desolate  rice-swamps  lie, 
Wearying  the  ear  of  Heaven  with  constant  prayer, 

Are  souls  that  never  yet  have  learned  to  raise 

Under  God's  equal  sky  the  psalm  of  praise. 

Turn  not,  Columbia  !  from  their  pleading  eyes  ; 

Give  to  thy  sons  that  ask  of  thee  a  home ; 
So  shall  they  gather  round  thee,  not  with  sighs, 

But  as  young  children  to  their  mother  come ; 
And  brightly  to  the  centuries  shall  go  down 
The  glory  that  thou  wearest  like  a  crown. 


19* 


222  POEMS    BY   PHCEBE   CAREY. 


HARVEST  GATHERING. 

The  last  days  of  the  summer  :  bright  and  clear 
Shines  the  warm  sun  down  on  the  quiet  land, 

Where  corn-fields,  thick  and  heavy  in  the  ear, 
Are  slowly  ripening  for  the  labourer's  hand; 

Seed-time  and  harvest — since  the  bow  was  set, 

Not  vainly  has  man  hoped  your  coming  yet ! 

To  the  quick  rush  of  sickles,  joyously 

The  reapers  in  the  yellow  wheat-fields  sung, 

And  bound  the  pale  sheaves  of  the  ripened  rye, 
When  the  first  tassels  of  the  maize  were  hung; 

That  precious  seed  into  the  furrow  cast 

Earliest  in  spring-time,  crowns  the  harvest  last. 

Ever,  when  summer's  sun  burns  faint  and  dim, 
And  rare  and  few  the  pleasant  days  are  given, 

When  the  sweet  praise  of  our  thanksgiving  hymn 
Makes  beautiful  music  in  the  ear  of  Heaven, 

I  think  of  other  harvests  whence  the  sound 

Of  singing  comes  not  as  the  sheaves  are  bound. 

Not  where  the  rice-fields  whiten  in  the  sun, 

And  the  warm  South  casts  down  her  yellow  fruit, 

Shout  they  the  labours  of  the  autumn  done — 
For  there  Oppression  casts  her  deadly  root, 


HARVEST    GATHERING.  223 

And  they,  who  sow  and  gather  in  that  clime. 
Share  not  the  treasures  of  the  harvest-time. 


God  of  the  seasons  !  thou  who  didst  ordain 
Bread  for  the  eater  who  shall  plant  the  soil, 

How  have  they  heard  thee,  who  have  forged  the  chain 
And  built  the  dungeon  for  the  sons  of  toil  ? 

Burdening  their  hearts,  not  with  the  voice  of  prayer, 

But  the  dull  cries  of  almost  dumb  despair. 

They  who  would  see  that  growth  of  wickedness 
Planted  where  now  the  peaceful  prairie  waves, 

And  make  the  green  paths  of  our  wilderness 
Red  with  the  torn  and  bleeding  feet  of  slaves — 

Forbid  it,  Heaven  !  and  let  the  sharp  axe  be 

Laid  at  the  root  of  that  most  poison  tree  ! 

Let  us  behold  its  deadly  leaves  begin 
A  fainter  shadow  o'er  the  world  to  cast, 

And  the  long  day  that  nursed  its  growth  of  sin 
"Wane  to  a  sunset  that  shall  be  its  last ; 

So  that  the  day-star,  rising  from  the  sea, 

Shall  light  a  land  whose  children  will  be  free  ! 


224         POEMS  BY  PHCEBE  CAREY. 


LIFE  IS  NOT  VANITY. 

Are  ye  not  erring  teachers 

Who  tell  us,  that  below 
There  is  no  sparkling  fountain 

Where  living  waters  flow ; 
That  all  earth's  well-springs  bubble  up 

With  bitter  drops  of  wo  ? 

That  life's  a  night  of  darkness, 
With  scarce  a  cheering  star, — 

That  we  cannot  make  our  trials 
Less  bitter  than  they  are, — 

That  we  should  think  of  heaven  alone, 
And  heaven  itself  is  far. 

No  marvel  earth  is  dark  to  you 
Who  thus  in  shadows  keep, — 

That  you  cannot  see  the  day-spring 
When  you  close  your  eyes  and  sleep ; 

Or  that  earth  is  but  a  vale  of  tears 
For  you  who  sit  and  weep. 

You  tell  us  of  the  happiness 

Of  the  unchanging  sphere, 
Because  the  loved  and  loving  there 

To  bless  us  will  be  near ; 


LIFE    IS    NOT    VANITY.  225 

If  that  be  heaven,  what  hinders  us 
To  make  a  heaven  here  ? 

Oh,  would  we  rouse  from  slumber, 

Life  hath  something  to  be  done; 
"We  may  lose  the  prize  by  faltering, 

Which  exertion  might  have  won; 
And  when  we  strive  to  help  ourselves, 

The  Lord  will  aid  us  on. 

And  if  we  be  immortal, 

As  we  believe  and  know, 
Then  is  the  life  eternal 

Begun  in  life  below ; 
And  hath  it  been  ordained  by  heaven, 

That  it  should  be  in  wo? 

No  !  and  though  trailing  shadows 
O'er  our  pathway  sometimes  move, 

Yet  below,  as  in  the  life  to  come, 
All  things  are  ruled  in  love, 

And  G-od  will  bless  as  willingly 
As  he  will  do  above ! 

And  if  we  cheer  life's  marches, 

And  smooth  the  path  beneath, 
If  we  labour  for  advancement 

With  a  true  and  earnest  faith  j 
We  shall  stand  prepared  for  lengthened  years, 

Or  for  the  call  of  death  I 


226  POEMS  BY  PH(EBE  CAREY. 


PRAYER. 

Father  !  thou  didst  hear  my  prayer 
When  I  plead  with  thee  to  spare, 
When  I  asked  for  length  of  years, 
Thou  didst  pitying  see  my  tears, 
And  thy  words  in  answer  were, 
"  Respite  from  the  sepulchre !" 

Lo !  no  more  the  prayer  I  raise  : 
Life  hath  waned  to  evil  days ; 
Veiling  in  the  dust  my  woes, 
I  would  bless  the  grave's  repose ; 
Sweeter,  sweeter  would  it  be, 
Than  a  lover's  dream  to  me. 

Long  enough  thy  child  hath  been 
Struggling  in  a  world  of  sin, 
Long  enough  have  doubts  assailed, 
Long  enough  the  flesh  prevailed, 
Long  enough  hath  sorrow  tried 
One  it  hath  not  purified. 

In  life's  hours  of  rosy  dawn, 
Hope  with  white  hand  led  me  on, 
Showing  gorgeous  imagery 
Of  a  happier  time  to  be ; 
But,  in  noonday's  clearer  flame, 
Blest  fruition  never  came. 


PRAYER.  227 


Hastening  now  towards  its  close 
Is  the  day  that  brightly  rose, 
And  the  hope  that  fled  its  prime 
Comes  not  at  the  evening  time ; 
Hear  me,  pity,  and  recall, 
Ere  the  midnight  shadows  fall ! 

Willing,  eager  to  depart, 
Old  in  years  and  old  in  heart, 
Waiting  but  the  messenger 
To  unseal  the  sepulchre, 
Lo  !  again  to  Thee  I  come — 
Take  me,  Father,  take  me  home  ! 


MORNING. 

Sadly,  when  the  day  was  done, 
To  his  setting  waned  the  sun ; 
Heavily  the  shadows  fell, 
And  the  wind,  with  fitful  swell, 
Echoed  through  the  forest  dim 
Like  a  friar's  ghostly  hymn. 

Mournful  on  the  wall,  afar, 
Walked  the  evening  sentry-star; 
Burning  clear,  and  cold,  and  lone, 
Midnight's  constellations  shone  j 


228  POEMS   BY   PHCEBE   CAREY. 

"While  the  hours,  with  solemn  tread, 
Passed  like  watchers  Tby  the  dead. 

Now  at  last  the  Morning  wakes, 
And  the  spell  of  darkness  breaks, 
On  the  mountains,  dewy  sweet, 
Standing  with  her  rosy  feet, 
While  her  golden  fingers  fair 
Part  the  soft  flow  of  her  hair. 

With  the  dew  from  flower  and. leaf 
Flies  the  heavy  dew  of  grief; 
From  the  darkness  of  my  thought, 
Night  her  solemn  aspect  caught ; 
And  the  morning's  joys  begin, 
As  a  morning  breaks  within. 

God's  free  sunshine  on  the  hills, 
Soft  mists  hanging  o'er  the  rills, 
Blushing  flowers  of  loveliness 
Trembling  with  the  light  wind's  kiss- 
Oh  !  the  soul  forgets  its  care, 
Looking  on  a  world  so  fair  ! 

Morning  wooes  me  with  her  charms, 
Like  a  lover's  pleading  arms ; 
Soft  above  me  bend  her  skies, 
As  a  lover's  tender  eyes ; 
And  my  heavy  heart  of  pain, 
Trembling,  thrills  with  hope  again. 


BURIAL   HYMN.  229 


BURIAL  HYMN. 

Earth  to  earth,  and  dust  to  dust ! 
Here,  in  calm  and  holy  trust, 
"We  have  made  her  quiet  bed 
"With  the  pale  hosts  of  the  dead, 
And,  with  hearts  that,  stricken,  weep, 
Come  to  lay  her  down  to  sleep. 

From  life's  weary  cares  set  free, 
Mother  Earth,  she  comes  to  thee  ! 
Hiding  from  its  ills  and  storms 
In  the  shelter  of  thine  arms  : 
Peaceful,  peaceful  be  her  rest, 
Here  upon  thy  faithful  breast. 

And  when  sweetly  from  the  dust 
Heaven's  last  summons  calls  the  just, 
Saviour !  when  the  nations  rise 
Up  to  meet  thee  in  the  skies, 
Gently,  gently,  by  the  hand, 
Lead  her  to  the  better  land  ! 


230  POEMS   BY  PHCEBE   CARET. 


SONG  OF  THE  REFORMED. 

Seeking  its  place  of  rest, 

Each  in  its  quiet  nest. 
All  the  glad  warblers  have  hushed  their  last  song; 

And  the  first  star  of  night, 

With  her  faint  silver  light, 
Gruideth  my  homeward  steps  safely  along. 

Oh  !  to  that  quiet  home, 

With  what  delight  I  come, 
When  from  the  cares  of  the  day  I  am  free ; 

For  with  her  happy  smile, 

There  my  young  wife  the  while 
Sits  by  the  lattice  pane  watching  for  me. 

But  when  I  sought  the  board 

Where  the  red  wine  is  poured, 
Oft  has  she  fled  when  my  footsteps  drew  near, 

And  nestling  down  to  rest, 

Close  to  that  faithful  breast, 
Has  my  young  infant  turned  from  me  in  fear. 

Silently  then  each  day 
Passed  her  sad  life  away— 
Silently  then  was  our  sweet  child  caressed ; 


THE  COLD   WATER   ARMY.  231 

Now  our  low  cabin  rings 
With  the  glad  song  she  sings, 
Rocking  it  nightly  to  sleep  on  her  breast. 

There  I  can  see  the  light 

"Where  our  warm  hearth  is  bright, 
Oh  !  is  there  bliss  more  ecstatic  above 

Than  this  full  heart  can  know, 

Blest  with  your  smiles  below, 
Wife  of  my  bosom  and  child  of  my  love  ? 


THE   COLD  WATER  ARMY. 

Firmly  they  still  have  stood, 

A  true  and  fearless  band, 
For  the  noble  cause  of  human  good 

Hath  nerved  each  heart  and  hand. 
And  they  fear  not  the  frowns  of  earth, 

The  mocking  sneers  of  men, 
For  they  fight  for  the  sacred  home  and  hearth, 

For  their  trampled  rights  again. 

In  their  ranks,  no  longer  thin  and  weak, 

Are  men  of  every  age, 
From  the  stripling  slight,  with  a  beardless  cheek, 

To  the  silver-headed  sage. 
Oh,  their  hosts  would  darken  the  summer  sea, 

Were  their  banners  all  outspread, 


232         POEMS  BY  PHCEBE  CAREY. 

And  the  dens  of  guilt  rock  tremblingly 
"With  their  firm  and  heavy  tread. 

They  come  not,  an  invading  band, 

With  dreams  of  high  renown, 
To  spoil  the  homes  of  our  happy  land, 

And  trample  her  vineyards  down ; 
But  to  hunt  that  monster  of  sin  and  crime, 

Which  the  slaves  of  the  wine-cup  know, 
Who  tracks  his  way  in  a  path  of  slime 

O'er  the  fairest  flowers  below. 

For  undisturbed  has  he  roamed  the  earth 

Till  his  serpent  brood  have  come 
To  nest  themselves  in  the  very  hearth 

Of  many  a  once  bright  home. 
Yet,  hearing  the  widow  and  orphan's  sigh, 

And  knowing  he  wounds  to  kill, 
There  are  those  so  deaf  to  a  nation's  cry 

They  would  shield  the  monster  still. 

But  our  army  follows  with  noiseless  tread 

Wherever  he  winds  his  way, 
As,  feeling  the  bruise  on  his  venomed  head, 

He  shrinks  from  the  light  of  day ; 
And  ne'er  on  the  unsheathed  sword  and  spear 

Will  their  hand  relax  its  grasp, 
Till  they  pause,  and  lean  on  their  arms,  to  hear 

The  sound  of  his  dying  gasp. 


COMING    HOME.  233 


COMING  HOME. 

How  long  it  seems  since  first  we  heard 

The  cry  of  "  Land  in  sight  V 
Our  vessel  surely  never  sailed 

So  slowly  till  to-night. 
"When  we  discerned  the  distant  hills, 

The  sun  was  scarcely  set, 
And  now  the  noon  of  night  is  passed, 

They  seem  no  nearer  yet. 

"Where  the  blue  Rhine  reflected  back 

Each  frowning  castle  wall, 
Where,  in  the  forest  of  the  Hartz, 

Eternal  shadows  fall — 
Or  where  the  yellow  Tiber  flowed 

By  the  old  hills  of  Rome, 
I  never  felt  such  restlessness, 

Such  longing  for  our  home. 

Dost  thou  remember,  oh !  my  friend, 

When  we  beheld  it  last, 
How  shadows  from  the  setting  sun 

Upon  our  cot  were  cast  ? 
Three  summer-times  upon  its  walls 

Have  shone  for  us  in  vain ; 
But,  oh !  we're  hastening  homeward  now, 

To  leave  it  not  again. 
20* 


234         POEMS  BY  PH(EBE  CAREY. 

There,  as  the  last  star  dropped  away 
From  Night's  imperial  brow, 

Did  not  our  vessel  "  round  the  point  ?" 
The  land  looks  nearer  now  ! 

Yes,  as  the  first  faint  beams  of  day- 
Fall  on  our  native  shore, 

They're  dropping  anchor  in  the  bay — 
We're  home,  we're  home  once  more ! 


THE  REEFER. 

Yes,  sailor,  when  the  angry  deep 

Its  war  with  heaven  is  waging, 
I'll  tell  thee  why  I  sit  and  weep 

When  thus  the  storm  is  raging. 
Once  when  the  sea,  as  now,  was  tossed 

With  fierce  and  wild  commotion, 
I  stood  unheeding  on  the  coast, 

And  watched  the  troubled  ocean. 

For  as  the  arrowy  bolts  were  hurled 

In  fiery  wrath  from  heaven, 
We  saw  afar,  with  canvas  furled, 

A  ship  through  darkness  driven. 
I  had  a  brother  then,  whose  bark 

Upon  the  sea  was  riding, 
And  when  I  saw  that  vessel  dark, 

I  knew  his  hand  was  guiding. 


THE   REEFER.  235 

And  now,  as  fiercer  came  the  light, 

And  as  the  storm  grew  drearer, 
"We  saw  her  through  the  gathering  night 

Come  near  the  strand,  and  nearer  ! 
Already  fancy  clasped  once  more 

The  form  so  fondly  cherished, 
"When,  reaching  to  the  fatal  shore, 

That  vessel  struck  and  perished  ! 

And  now,  upon  the  sea,  whene'er 

The  black  clouds  o'er  us  hover, 
I  see  that  frail  bark  strike,  and  hear 

The  shriek  that  rose  above  her ! 
No  change  can  lull  my  thoughts  to  sleep, 

No  time  my  grief  assuages ; 
And  therefore,  sailor,  do  I  weep, 

When  thus  the  tempest  rages. 


A  TIME  TO   DIE. 

Like  the  music  deep  and  solemn 

In  some  ruined  church, 
Floating  over  crumbling  column 

And  fallen  arch ; 
Through  the  naked  branches  trailing 

Low  on  the  ground, 
Come  the  winds  of  autumn  wailing 

With  a  ghostly  sound. 


236  POEMS   BY  PHCEBE   CAREY. 

Over  all  below  a  feeling 

Of  quiet  reigns, 
Like  a  drowsy  numbness  stealing 

Through  the  veins. 
Even  the  sun,  in  the  dim  haze  mourning, 

Hides  his  head, 
Like  a  sickly  taper  burning 

Beside  the  dead. 

And  all  day  one  feeling  busy 
In  my  soul  hath  wrought, 

Till  heart  and  brain  are  dizzy 
With  the  solemn  thought. 

In  the  shadow  of  deep  dejection 
I  sit  and  sigh, 

With  but  one  sad  reflection, 

"A  TIME  TO  DIE!" 

0  Grod  of  the  soul  immortal  ! 

If  death  be  near, 
Teach  me  to  tread  that  portal 

And  not  to  fear. 
Keep  thou  my  feet  from  turning 

Aside  to  die ; 
Let  my  lamp  be  filled  and  burning 

For  the  "  midnight  cry  !" 


DEATH   SCENE.  237 


DEATH   SCENE. 


Dying,  still  slowly  dying, 

As  the  hours  of  night  wore  by, 
She  had  lain  since  the  light  of  sunset 

"Was  red  on  the  evening  sky. 

Till  after  the  middle  watches, 
As  we  softly  near  her  trod, 
When  her  soul  from  its  prison  fetters 
.     "Was  loosed  by  the  hand  of  God. 

One  moment  her  pale  lips  trembled 
With  the  triumph  she  might  not  tell, 

As  the  light  of  the  life  immortal 
On  her  spirit's  vision  fell. 

Then  the  look  of  rapture  faded, 

And  the  beautiful  smile  waxed  faint, 

As  that  in  some  convent  picture 
On  the  face  of  a  dying  saint. 

And  we  felt  in  the  lonesome  midnight, 

As  we  sat  by  the  silent  dead, 
What  a  light  on  the  path  going  downward 

The  steps  of  the  righteous  shed  : 

When  we  thought  how  with  feet  unshrinking 

She  came  to  the  Jordan's  tide, 
And,  taking  the  hand  of  the  Saviour, 

Wea\  up  on  the  heavenly  side  ! 


238  POEMS   BY   PHCEBE   CAREY. 


THE   PLACE   OF    GRAVES. 

How  often,  in  the  summers  gone, 

Fve  stood  where  these  memorials  rise, 

And  every  time  the  spot  had  grown 
Less  and  less  lonely  to  mine  eyes. 

The  first  I  ever  loved  that  died 

Sleeps  here,  where  these  sweet  roses  wave ; 
A  maiden,  with  life's  paths  untried, 

She  left  the  sunshine  for  the  grave. 

And  what  a  place  of  desolate  gloom 
Seemed  then  to  me  the  realm  of  death, 

Though  she  I  loved  went  calmly  down, 
In  all  the  trustfulness  of  faith. 

The  next,  a  sweet  lamb  of  the  fold, 
An  infant,  lulled  to  slumber  lay, 

With  her  pale  locks  of  finest  gold 
Put  softly  from  her  brow  away. 

But  when  the  patient  mother  prest 
To  her  meek  lips  the  bitter  cup, 

And  came  with  those  she  loved  to  rest, 
Till  God  shall  call  the  sleepers  up, 

Then  the  dim  pathway  grew  more  clear, 
That  leads  through  darkness  to  the  light, 

And  death  has  never  seemed  so  drear, 
Nor  heaven  so  distant  from  my  sight. 


PARTING   AND    MEETING.  239 


PARTING  AND   MEETING. 

On  the  casement,  closed  and  lonesome, 

Is  falling  the  autumn  rain, 
And  my  heart  to-night  is  heavy 

With  a  sense  of  unquiet  pain. 

Not  that  the  leaves  are  dying 

In  the  kiss  of  the  traitor  frost, 
And  not  that  the  summer  flowers 

On  the  bitter  winds  are  tossed. 

And  not  that  the  reaper's  singing 

The  time  no  longer  cheers, 
Bringing  home  through  the  mellow  starlight 

The  sheaves  and  the  yellow  ears. 

No,  not  from  these  am  I  sighing, 
As  the  hours  pass  slow  and  dull, 

For  God  in  his  own  time  maketh 
All  seasons  beautiful. 

But  one  of  our  household  number 
Sits  not  by  the  hearth-fire's  light, 

And  right  on  her  pathway  beating 
Is  the  rain  of  this  autumn  night. 


240  POEMS   BY  PHCEBE   CAREY. 

And  therefore  my  heart  is  heavy 
With  a  sense  of  unquiet  pain, 

For,  but  Heaven  can  tell  if  the  parted 
Shall  meet  in  the  earth  again. 

But  knowing  God's  love  extendeth 
Wherever  his  children  are, 

And  tenderly  round  about  them 
Are  the  arms  of  his  watchful  care ; 

With  him  be  the  time  and  the  season 
Of  our  meeting  again  with  thee, 

Whether  here  on  these  earthly  borders, 
Or  the  shore  of  the  world  to  be. 


DEATH    OF   A   FRIEND. 

Where  leaves  by  bitter  winds  are  heaped 
In  the  deep  hollows,  damp  and  cold, 

And  the  light  snow-shower,  silently, 
Is  falling  on  the  yellow  mould, 

Sleeps  one  who  was  our  friend  below — 
With  meek  hands  folded  on  her  breast, 

When  the  first  flowers  of  summer  died, 
We  softly  laid  her  down  to  rest. 


DEATH   OF   A   FRIEND.  241 

By  her  were  blessings  freely  strewn, 

As  roses  by  the  summer's  breath ; 
Yet  nothing  in  her  perfect  life 

Was  half  so  lovely  as  her  death. 

In  the  meek  beauty  of  a  faith 

Which  few  have  ever  proved  like  her, 

She  shrunk  not  even  when  she  felt 
The  chill  breath  of  the  sepulchre. 

Heavier,  and  heavier  still,  she  leaned 

Upon  His  arm  who  died  to  save, 
As  step  by  step  he  led  her  down 

To  the  still  chamber  of  the  grave. 

'Twas  at  the  midnight's  solemn  watch 
She  sunk  to  slumber,  calm  and  deep — 

The  golden  fingers  of  the  dawn 

Shall  never  wake  her  from  that  sleep. 

From  him,  who  was  her  friend  below, 
She  turned  to  meet  her  Heavenly  Guide ; 

And  the  sweet  children  of  her  love, 
She  left  them  sleeping  when  she  died. 

Her  last  of  suns  went  calmly  down, 

And  when  the  morn  rose  bright  and  clear, 

Hers  was  a  holier  Sabbath-day 

Than  that  which  dawned  upon  us  here. 
21 


242  POEMS   BY   PHCEBE   CARET. 


LOVE  AT   THE   GRAVE. 

Remembrancer  of  nature's  prime, 
And  herald  of  her  fading  near, 

The  last  month  of  the  summer  time 
Of  leaves  and  flowers  is  with  us  here. 

More  eloquent  than  lip  can  preach 
To  every  heart  that  hopes  and  fears, 

What  solemn  lessons  does  it  teach 
Of  the  quick  passage  of  our  years  ! 

To  me  it  brings  sad  thoughts  of  one, 
Who,  in  the  summer's  fading  bloom, 

Bright  from  the  arms  of  love  went  down 
To  the  dim  silence  of  the  tomb. 

How  often  since  has  spring's  soft  shower 
Revived  the  life  in  nature's  breast, 

And  the  sweet  herb  and  tender  flower 
Have  been  renewed  above  her  rest ! 

How  many  summer  times  have  told 
To  mortal  hearts  their  rapid  flight, 

Since  first  this  heap  of  yellow  mould 
Shut  out  her  beauty  from  my  sight ! 


LOVE   AT   THE   GRAVE.  243 

Since  first,  to  love's  sweet  promise  true, 

My  feet  beside  her  pillow  trod, 
Till  year  by  year  the  pathway  grew 

Deeper  and  deeper  in  the  sod  ! 

Now  these  neglected  roses  tell 

Of  no  kind  hand  to  tend  them  nigh ; 

Oh,  God  !  I  have  not  kept  so  well 
My  faith  as  in  the  years  gone  by. 

But  here  to-day  my  step  returns, 

And,  kneeling  where  these  willows  wave, 

As  the  soft  flame  of  sunrise  burns 

Down  through  the  dim  leaves  to  thy  grave, 

I  cry,  Forgive  that  I  should  prove 

Forgetful  of  thy  memory ; 
Forgive  me,  that  a  living  love 

Once  came  between  my  soul  and  thee ! 

For  the  weak  heart  that  faintly  yearned 

For  human  love  its  life  to  cheer, 
Baffled  and  bleeding  has  returned 

To  stifle  down  its  crying  here. 

For,  steadfast  still,  thy  faith  to  me 

Was  one  which  earth  could  not  estrange : 

And,  lost  one !  where  the  angels  be, 
I  know  affection  may  not  change. 


244  POEMS   BY   PHCEBE   CAREY. 


STRENGTH   OF   SIN. 

How  lately  and  this  beautiful  earth 
Was  shut  by  darkness  from  my  sight, 

And  all  the  mighty  arch  of  blue 

"Was  sparkling  with  its  worlds  of  light. 

Waning  and  waning,  one  by  one 
They  vanished  as  the  day-star  rose, 

Till,  lo !  along  the  distant  hills 

The  fire  of  sunrise  burns  and  glows. 

And  turning  from  the  hosts  of  heaven 
To  the  calm  beauty  of  the  earth, 

I  feel  what  goodness  must  be  His 
Who  spoke  its  glories  into  birth. 

More  than  our  hearts  can  comprehend, 
Or  our  weak  blinded  eyes  can  see, 

The  wisdom  and  the  love  of  God, 
How  mighty  and  how  vast  they  be  ! 

Too  fair  for  us  to  hate  or  leave 

This  world  His  hand  has  placed  us  in, 

But  for  the  presence  and  the  power 
Of  that  most  fiery  serpent,  sin — 


STRENGTH   OF   SIN.  245 

That  first  in  Eden's  peaceful  shade 
Uncoiled  its  bright  and  deadly  folds, 

And  living  still,  and  unsubdued, 

Sends  its  dark  poison  through  our  souls. 

But  from  his  creatures,  blind  and  lost, 

God  never  wholly  turned  aside, 
As  power  to  save  us  from  the  curse 

"Was  sent  us  when  the  Saviour  died. 

All  that  is  left  us  under  heaven, 
Hope  of  the  lost  and  sin  enslaved, 

The  only  Name  on  earth  that's  given, 
Whereby  the  souls  of  men  are  saved. 

Thanks  unto  G-od,  that  He  was  sent 

A  sacred  warfare  to  begin, 
That  in  the  end  shall  surely  crush 

And  bind  the  infernal  strength  of  sin ! 

That  by  Him  it  shall  be  at  last 
Out  from  this  fair  creation  hurled, 

Who  gave  its  death-blow  when  the  cross 
Was  darkly  planted  in  the  world. 

And  thanks  to  Him,  that  when  the  soul 

In  agony  for  mercy  calls, 
Right  in  the  shadow  of  that  cross 

The  sunlight  of  His  pardon  falls. 

21* 


216  P0E3IS    BY   PHCEBE   CAREY. 


THE  WOMEN  AT  THE  SEPULCHRE. 

Morn  broke  on  Calvary,  and  the  sun  was  flinging 
The  earliest  brightness  from  his  locks  abroad, 

As  the  meek  sisters  came  in  sadness,  bringing 
Gifts  of  sweet  spices  to  anoint  their  Lord. 

They  who  had  loved  his  blessed  precepts  ever, 
And  linger' d  with  him  when  the  earth  was  gloom, 

They  were  the  faithful  who  reviled  him  never, 
"  Last  at  the  cross,  and  earliest  at  the  tomb  !" 

I've  sometimes  thought  I  never  could  inherit 
A  glorious  mansion  in  the  skies  above  : 

For,  oh  !  how  weak  and  faltering  is  my  spirit, 
Compared  with  such  undying  faith  and  love  ! 

But,  Father,  cannot  all  that  heavenly  meekness, 
That  deathless  love  which  all  things  could  endure, 

Can  it  not  plead  before  Thee,  for  the  weakness 
Of  one  whose  faith  is  oft  so  faint  and  poor  ?    » 


MELODY.  247 


MELODY. 

The  beautiful  eve,  in  her  sparkling  tiara, 

"With  dew-dropping  fingers  is  closing  the  flower, 

Where  thou,  oh !  my  white-bosomed  bird  of  the  prairie, 
Art  watching  and  waiting  for  me  in  our  bower. 

My  heart,  beating  quick  as  the  pulse  of  the  ocean, 
Outstrips  e'en  my  courser,  to  see  thee  again ; 

Though  his  limbs  are  as  lithe  and  as  fleet  in  their  motion 
As  the  barb  in  the  desert,  or  roe  on  the  plain. 

My  heart  feels  no  presage  of  evil  or  danger, 

For  thou  never  wouldst  fly,  lovely  warbler,  from  me ; 

And  I  hid  thee  so  well  that  the  spoiler  and  stranger 
Could  track  not  the  windings  which  lead  me  to  thee. 

Yet  faster,  my  steed  :  for  the  starlight  discloses 
Our  bower,  but  no  minstrel  its  shadows  among  • — 

Yes,  something  is  fluttering  like  wings  in  the  roses, 
And,  bird  of  my  bosom  !  I  hear  thy  sweet  song. 


248  POEMS  BY  PHOEBE  CAREY. 


CHANGES. 

Under  the  evening  splendour 

Of  spring's  sweet  skies, 
Learned  I  love's  lesson  tender — 

From  the  maiden's  eyes. 

When  the  stars,  like  lovers  meeting, 

In  the  blue  appeared, 
And  my  heart,  tumultuous  beating, 

Hoped  and  feared. 

Then  the  passion,  long  dissembled, 

My  lip  made  known, 
And  the  hand  of  the  maiden  trembled 

In  my  own — 

Till  the  tears  that  gushed  unbidden, 

Unrepressed, 
And  the  crimson  blush  was  hidden 

On  my  breast. 

And  there  in  that  vale  elysian, 
Through  the  summer  bland, 

We  walked  in  a  tranced  vision, 
Hand  in  hand. 


CHANGES.  249 

There  the  evening  shadows  found  us 

Side  by  side, 
While  the  glorious  roses  round  us 

Bloomed  and  died. 

And  when  the  bright  sun,  waning, 

Dimly  burned, — 
When  the  wind  with  sad  complaining, 

In  the  valley  mourned, — 

When  the  bridal  roses  faded 

In  her  hair, 
And  her  brow  was  sweetly  shaded 

With  a  thought  of  care, — 

Then  with  heart  still  fondly  thrilling, 

But  with  calmer  bliss, 
From  the  lip  no  more  unwilling, 

I  claimed  the  kiss. 

Then  our  dreams,  with  love  overladen, 

Were  verified, 
And  dearer  to  me  than  the  maiden 

Grew  the  bride. 

But  when  the  dead  leaves  drifted 

In  that  valley  low, 
And  down  from  the  cold  sky  sifted 

The  noiseless  snow : 


250  POEMS   BY   PH(EBE   CAREY. 

Where  the  hearts  of  the  faithful  moulder 

With  the  dead, 
They  made  her  a  pillow  colder 

Than  the  bridal  bed. 

And  there  at  the  spring's  returning, 
With  the  summer's  glow, 

When  the  autumn's  sun  is  burning, 
In  the  winter's  snow, — 

With  the  ghosts  of  the  dim  past  ever 

Gliding  round, 
Walk  I  in  that  vale  as  a  river 

That  makes  no  sound. 


FEARS. 

Hold  me  closer  to  thy  bosom, 
Let  me  feel  thy  clasping  hand ; 

Wilder  grows  the  night,  and  drearer — 
Shall  we  never  reach  the  land  ? 

Thrice  from  dreams  of  broken  slumber 

Have  I  started  in  affright ; 
On  the  shore  I  never  trembled 

As  I  tremble  here  to-night. 


\  as.  251 

Nay,  'tis  not  the  haunting  beauty 

Of  some  lovely  vision  gone — 
But  the  watches  wear  so  heavy; 

Leave  me,  leave  me  not  alone  ! 

Yes,  I  know  the  waves  are  calmer, 

And  the  sky  has  lost  its  frown, 
But  the  sharp  reefs,  ere  the  morning 

We  may  strike  them,  and  go  down  ! 

Said  you  that  the  dawn  is  breaking, 

With  its  gray  uncertain  light  ? 
Look !  I  dare  not  trust  my  vision — 

Are  the  cliffs  of  home  in  sight? 

Hush !  I  cannot,  listening  eager, 

Hear  the  heavy  billows  roar; 
We  are  standing  in  still  water — 

We  are  nearing  to  the  shore  ! 

Yes,  above  us,  streaming  seaward, 
Shine  the  red  lights  of  the  tower ; 

We  are  anchored — we  are  mooring — 
God  be  praised  for  such  an  hour ! 


252  POEMS   BY   PHCEBE   CAREY. 


THE   WATCHER. 

;Tis  the  third  summer  that  has  gone, 
Since  first  upon  that  sloping  hill, 

He  listened  for  the  feet  of  one 
Whose  coming  he  is  waiting  still. 

All  through  the  evenings  warm  and  bland; 

When  the  red  sunset  lights  the  skies, 
Then  first  we  see  the  watcher  stand, 

With  hope  reflected  in  his  eyes  : 

Still  waiting  through  the  tranquil  hours, 
Till  eve  with  fingers,  fair  and  slight, 

Has  folded  up  to  sleep  the  flowers, 

And  left  them  with  the  peaceful  night. 

But  when  the  stars  like  fire-sparks  glow 
In  the  far  pavement  of  the  sky, 

Then  hope,  that  lingered  on  till  now, 
Fades  slowly  from  his  cheek  and  eye. 

And  when  the  still  night,  wearing  on, 

Has  almost  broken  into  day, 
As  if  he  knew  she  would  not  come, 

He  turns  with  mournful  step  away. 


TIIE   WATCHER.  253 

Oh,  heavily,  and  dull,  and  slow, 

Such  hours  of  anxious  vigil  wane  : 
God  keep  that  watcher  in  his  wo, 

Who  looks  for  coming  feet  in  vain. 

'Twas  on  the  morning  of  a  day 

Sweet  as  the  night-time  ever  nursed, 

Her  white  arms  filled  with  flowers  of  May, 
He  saw  the  village  maiden  first. 

Like  the  last  hues  of  dying  day, 

Which  sunset  from  his  path  has  rolled, 

The  roses  of  the  summer  lay 
Softly  among  her  locks  of  gold. 

Singing  a  soft  and  plaintive  lay, 

She  won  him  with  her  gentle  tw 
And  then  he  stole  her  heart  away 

With  voice  as  witching  as  her  own. 

And  once,  when  the  sweet  stars  as  now 

Look  calmly  down  upon  that  hill, 
Their  young  hearts  breathed  the  tender  vow 

Which  one  has  kept  so  faithful  still. 

And  meeting  nightly,  'twas  not  strange, 
But  yet  he  dreamed  not  love  could  wane, 

Or  thought  that  human  hearts  might  change, 
Until  he  waited  there  in  vain. 


254  POEMS   BY  PHOEBE   CAREY. 

And  still,  to  meet  her  on  that  height, 
He  lingers  as  in  summers  gone, 

Till  evening  deepening  into  night, 
He  wakes  to  find  himself  alone. 

For  none  till  now  have  ever  told 
That  watcher  of  expectant  hours, 

How  long  ago  her  locks  of  gold 

Were  braided  with  the  bridal  flowers. 


CHALMERS. 

In  the  hush  of  the  desolate  midnight, 
Leaving  no  brighter  behind, 

A  noble  light  was  stricken 
From  the  galaxy  of  mind. 

As  the  red  lights  down  in  the  water, 
When  a  boat  shoots  into  the  sea, 

Or  a  star  through  the  thin  blue  ether, 
He  vanished  silently. 

Not  the  counsel  of  ghostly  fathers 
Showed  him  the  way  he  trod, 

Not  the  picture  of  saints  and  martyrs, 
Nor  the  smile  of  the  Mother  of  G-od ; 


CHALMERS.  255 

Not  the  love-lighted  brows  of  kindred, 

Nor  the  words  of  a  faithful  friend, 
Opened  up  the  way  to  his  vision, 

And  cheered  him  to  the  end. 

As  a  God-fearing  man,  and  holy, 

He  had  passed  through  the  snares  beneath, 

And  he  needed  no  aid  to  strengthen 
His  soul  in  the  hour  of  death. 

The  steps  of  his  faith  were  planted 
Where  the  waves  in  vain  might  beat, 

"While  the  waters  of  death  rose  darkly, 
And  closed  around  his  feet. 

Not  the  "  Save,  or  I  perish  f*  of  Peter, 

Was  his  as  he  faintly  trod, 
But  the  trust  of  that  first  blest  martyr, 

Falling  asleep  in  God. 

And  we  may  not  mourn  the  brightness 

That  is  taken  from  our  sky, 
Which  shall  teach  to  the  unborn  ages 

The  way  to  live  and  die. 


256         POEMS  BY  PHCEBE  CAREY. 


SONG. 

The  first  and  loveliest  star  of  even 

Shines  on  me  with  its  first  sweet  light : 

0  thou,  to  whom  my  heart  is  given, 
"What  visions  haunt  thy  soul  to-night  ? 

Dost  thou,  as  this  soft  twilight  steals 
So  mildly  over  hill  and  plain, 

Think  of  the  hour  we  parted  last, 
And  wish  me  by  thy  side  again  ? 

1  ask  not  that  thy  love  should  be 
As  deep,  as  trusting  as  my  own, 

I  do  not  ask  that  thou  shouldst  feel 
All  that  my  woman's  heart  has  known 

But  if,  for  every  thousand  times 
My  spirit  fondly  turns  to  thee, 

One  thought  of  thine  to  me  is  given, 
I  doubt  not  thy  fidelity. 

For  me,  when  on  the  hills  alone, 
Or  treading  through  the  noisy  mart, 

There  is  no  time,  there  is  no  place, 
But  thou  art  with  me  in  my  heart. 

I  only  think  upon  the  past, 

Or  dream  of  happier  days  to  be, 

And  every  hope  and  every  fear 

Is  something  hoped  or  feared  for  thee. 


THE   CONFESSION.  257       \ 


THE   CONFESSION. 

In  the  moonlight  of  the  spring-time, 
Trembling,  blushing,  half  afraid, 

Heard  I  first  the  fond  confession 
From  the  sweet  lips  of  the  maid. 

As  the  roses  of  the  summer, 
By  his  warm  embraces  won, 

Take  a  fairer,  richer  colour 
From  the  glances  of  the  sun ; 

So  as,  gazing,  earnest,  anxious, 
I  besought  her  but  to  speak, 

Deep,  and  deeper  burned  the  crimson 
Of  the  blushes  in  her  cheek ; 

Till  at  last,  with  happy  impulse, 
Impulse  that  she  might  not  check, 

As  it  softly  thrilled  and  trembled, 
Stole  her  white  arm  round  my  neck; 

And  with  lips,  that,  half  averted 
From  the  lips  that  bent  above, 

Met  the  kiss  of  our  betrothal, 
Told  the  maiden  of  her  love. 

22* 


258  POEMS    BY   PH(EBE   CAREY. 


THE  ILLS  OF  LIFE. 

How  oft,  when  pursued  by  evils, 
We  falter  and  faint  by  the  way, 

But  are  fearless  when,  o'ertaken, 
We  pause,  and  turn  at  bay. 

When  storms  in  the  distance  have  gathered, 
I  have  trembled  their  wrath  to  meet, 

Yet  stood  firm  when  the  arrowy  lightning 
Has  fallen  at  my  feet. 

My  soul  in  the  shadows  of  twilight 

Has  groaned  beneath  its  load, 
And  felt  at  the  solemn  midnight 

Secure  in  the  hand  of  God. 

I  have  been  with  friends  who  were  cherished 

All  earthly  things  above, 
Till  I  deemed  the  death-pangs  lighter 

Than  the  pangs  of  parting  love. 

Yet  with  one  fearful  struggle, 
When  at  last  the  dread  blow  fell, 

I  have  kept  my  heart  from  breaking, 
And  calmly  said,  Farewell ! 


THE   ILLS  OF   LIFE.  259 

I  have  looked  at  the  grave,  and  shuddered 

For  my  kindred  treading  near, 
And  when  their  feet  had  entered, 

My  soul  forgot  its  fear. 

Our  ills  are  not  so  many 

Nor  so  hard  to  bear  below, 
But  our  suffering  in  dread  of  the  future 

Is  more  than  our  present  wo. 

"We  see  with  our  vision  imperfect 

Such  causes  of  doubt  and  fear — 
Some  yet  that  are  far  in  the  distance, 

And  some  that  may  never  be  near — 

When,  if  we  would  trust  in  His  wisdom 

Whose  purpose  we  may  not  see, 
We  would  find,  whatever  our  trials, 

As  our  day  our  strength  shall  be. 


260  POEMS   BY   PH(EBE   CAREY. 


THE  BRIDE. 

Like  the  music  of  an  arrow, 

Rushing,  singing  from  the  string, 

Was  the  sound  in  the  June  roses 
Of  each  homeward  cleaving  wing. 

Where  the  leaves  were  softly  parted 

By  a  hand  of  snowy  grace, 
Letting  in  a  shower  of  sunlight 

Brightly  o'er  an  eager  face ; 

O'er  the  young  face  of  a  maiden, 
Touched  by  changing  hope  and  fear, 

As  the  sound  of  rapid  hoof-strokes, 
Nearing,  fell  upon  the  ear. 

White  robes  softly  heaving,  fluttering, 
O'er  her  bosom's  rise  of  snow, 

Spoke  the  strange  and  soft  confession 
Of  the  beating  heart  below. 

And  the  face  had  sweet  revealings, 
Sweeter  than  the  lip  may  speak, 

For  the  soft  fires  of  confession 
Lit  their  crimson  in  the  cheek. 


THE   BRIDE.  261 


Not  for  friend,  and  not  for  brother, 
Kept  she  eager  vigil  there ; 

Not  for  friend,  and  not  for  brother, 
Gleamed  the  roses  in  her  hair. 


Myriad  frost-sparks  fire-like  glittered 

In  the  keen  and  bitter  air, 
And  no  wild-bird,  dropping  downward, 

Stirred  the  branches  cold  and  bare. 

Flaming  in  the  glorious  forehead 
Of  the  midnight,  high  and  lone, 

Starry  constellations,  steadfast, 
Yet  like  burning  jewels  shone ; 

When,  from  a  sick  couch  uplifted, 
A  thin  hand,  most  snowy  white, 

Parted  back  the  curtains  softly, 
Letting  in  the  pallid  light. 

Eyes  of  more  than  mortal  brightness 
Spoke  the  waiting  heart's  desire, 

And  the  hollow  cheeks  were  lighted 
"With  a  quick,  consuming  fire. 

That  young  watcher  in  the  roses, 
Of  the  earnest  eye  and  brow, 

Keeps  again  her  anxious  vigil; 
Who  shall  end  its  moments  now  ? 


262  POEMS  BY  PHCEBE  CAREY. 

Lo  !  the  breast  is  softly  trembling, 
But  with  hope  that  has  no  fear : 

By  that  happy  smile  the  Presence 
She  hath  waited  for  is  near ! 

For  a  bridegroom  hath  she  tarried ; 

Bring  the  roses  for  her  brow ; 
Though  no  human  passion  answers 

To  his  icy  kisses  now. 

Bride  of  earth !  here,  hoping,  fearing, 
Evil  were  thy  days,  and  vain ; 

Bride  of  heaven !  for  blest  fruition 
Thou  shalt  never  wait  again. 


263 


REMEMBRANCE. 

I  have  struggled  long  with  weakness, 
But  my  heart  is  free  at  last ; 

Never  more  will  it  be  haunted 
With  the  phantoms  of  the  past. 

Never  more,  from  fairest  maiden, 
The  light  witchery  of  a  word 

Shall  thrill  my  heart  with  rapture, 
When  its  magic  tones  are  heard. 

And  that  heart,  so  long  made  heavy 

With  inquietude  and  wo, 
From  its  fetters  loosed,  is  ringing, 

Like  a  quick  shaft  from  the  bow. 

Forgotten  be  the  trusted 

That  have  lightly  broke  their  trust ; 
And  the  dreams  that  I  have  cherished, 

Let  them  perish  in  the  dust ! 

Yet  there  was  one  fair  maiden, 
Sweetest  vision  of  my  youth, 

She  was  lovely  when  I  loved  her, 
And  her  words  were  like  the  truth. 


264  POEMS   BY   PHCEBE   CAREY. 

And  they  may  have  torn  her  from  me  5 
She  was  faithful  once,  I  know — 

No,  she  smiled  beside  the  altar,    ' 
And  'twas  not  to  hide  her  wo  ! 

And  how  can  she,  smiling,  meet  me 
With  that  fearless,  open  brow  ? 

;Twas  like  heaven,  of  old,  to  kiss  it, 
'Twould  be  heaven  to  kiss  it  now. 

Pause,  remembrance,  since  for  ever, 
Leila,  dreams  of  thee  are  sin — 

Oh,  I  thought  my  heart  was  stronger 
Till  I  paused  and  looked  within  ! 


THE   END. 


